


If I should falter

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, help this was supposed to be a quick fix it fic and now it's growing plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-08-23 05:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 63,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20237674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: January, 1987. Sam goes to find Ruth.





	1. The unbearable you

Debbie is sitting in one of the window booths of an otherwise empty diner. Pen in hand, completely engrossed in the contents of her portfolio. He sighs, but there’s no point delaying the inevitable.

“Hey.”

She looks up at his greeting and _almost_ smiles. A big, fake, toothpaste-advert grin; the first tool in the armory of any professional charmer. But it dies on the way to her face as she realizes who is speaking. Murdered by rage, judging by the way her eyes flash. 

“Sam. Did you… uh, did you have a good Christmas?”

He shrugs, taking the seat opposite. “Fucking great. I particularly enjoyed the gift of being released from my contract with _Bash Howard Productions_—”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Sam. You were collecting a check for doing literally nothing. Of course, we weren’t going to—”

“Alright, alright.” Force of habit guides his hand to his shirt pocket, and an almost empty packet of cigarettes. Those that remain rattle in the paper as he puts the box down on the table. Buying time for two short-fused tempers. “Why the fuck am I here now, then?” 

Debbie’s jaw works back and forth. She almost looks uncertain, an expression he hasn’t seen on her face for a long time. “Have you—? Um.” She grits her teeth and forces out the awkward question. “Have you heard from Ruth recently?”

He slumps in his seat. Her name is still a punch to the gut. “No.”

“She… she isn’t taking my calls.”

“So? Since when is that my problem?”

“Because you—you’re the one that made her feel like a piece of shit in the first place! Dragging her out here to audition when you wanted an excuse to fu—”

“That’s not what fucking happened! Is that what she told you? Jesus Christ!”

It’s not time for another cigarette, not even close, but he really doesn’t have another coping strategy. He fumbles today’s number four into his mouth, lighting up while Debbie grinds her teeth.

“Look,” she tries eventually. “I just think that if you were to apologize… she might consider coming back to Los Angeles.”

“What?” He screws up his face at this piece of lunacy. “If I apologize, she’ll start talking to you again? Why don’t you apologize for whatever the latest twist in your ongoing saga is? Or here’s a novel idea: if Ruth doesn’t want to talk to us, _maybe we don’t fucking talk_. You know, be grown-ups about the situation.”

She stares at him, feline cold. “You’re… you’re seriously pitching never speaking again as the adult option here?”

“Jesus, Debbie! I don’t fucking know!” There is a clank from the diner kitchen, a pointed reminder to keep a lid on his temper. He takes another deep drag on his cigarette. “What did you do, anyway?”

Because he has to know, doesn’t he? What could possibly be worse than a fractured ankle.

“I… I offered her a job.” 

“Huh.” They’re a curious pair of bookends then. One ostracized for failing to give her a part, the other for providing one. Debbie slides a piece of paper from her portfolio across the table to him in the intervening silence. He reads the contract dully, finishing his smoke. It stings, but probably less than it should. “So,” he says eventually, “you offered her my job?”

“Your job? Seriously? God, Sam. It’s not like you even wanted to direct GLOW in the first place.”

He drums his fingers on the Formica top, desperate distraction from the temptation of cigarette number five. “Well, I don’t fucking know. Maybe Ruth didn’t want to either. Don’t get me wrong. I know that she pulled my ass out of the fire taking up the mantle…”

Debbie makes a face at this uncharacteristic admission. “What? Who even are you right now?”

“… but she did it to save the show. Right? To keep performing.” 

“Uh, maybe?” Debbie shrugs. “I mean, who knows with Ruth sometimes? Some of her choices are just inexplicable.”

He studies the tabletop minutely, hot shame burning in the pit of his stomach. Of course, Debbie has to _know_ he’s one of those inexplicable choices—

_Except she didn’t choose you_, says the nasty little voice at the back of his head. The one he used to drown in booze; powder-dust in blow. _She wanted to be an actress again, that’s all. She wanted a _part_. Not you, pathetic old man__—_

“Okay,” he says aloud, to quiet the monster. “Sure. I’ll call her. Whatever. But I don’t think she’s going to speak to me if she’s not even talking to you.” He sighs again. “And tell me why.”

“Why? You know she has, God, _so_ many ideas for—”

“I know how good she is at directing. But if someone says they don’t want to talk...” He shrugs. “Why keep trying?”

Debbie opens and closes her mouth, struggling to find the right lie. “Because this is the right move for her.”

He merely raises his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Uh-huh.”

“Oh, God.” She turns her eyes up to the ceiling in frustration but gives him the truth. “I just don’t want to make this show without Ruth, okay? It would feel wrong.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. The words sound like they come from far, far away. “Yeah. I get that.”

* * *

“Ah, come on, come on…”

He knocks again, stuffing his frozen hands into his jacket pocket as he waits for a response. But the house is dark, a dusting of snow on the ground with no footprints, and he’s not at all convinced anyone is home.

“Excuse me?”

He turns to find an inquisitive neighbor. Carrying a snow shovel, though the neighboring driveway is already clear. “Hey, hi,” he manages. Trying to look as friendly and unsuspicious as possible, probably an immediate red flag.

“Are you… looking for someone?” He must be in his seventies, hefting the shovel with some difficulty. Still, it’s clear the wrong set of answers will see Sam chased off the property.

“I’m looking for Ruth. Uh, Ruth Wilder?” Clearly the name drop is not enough. “I work with her on a TV show. And there’s a - a new contract that needs signing.”

It’s a paper-thin cover story and he’s an awful liar. He realizes he is holding his breath, waiting to be called out—

“Oh, are they making more of her show? What’s it called now…?”

“GLOW,” Sam cuts in, before they can take the meander down memory lane. He’s already so cold he can barely feel his toes. “Yeah. I mean, that’s the plan. But obviously they need, uh, they need their star. And we can’t seem to get through to her on the ‘phone. So. Yeah.” He shrugs, the wide armed _what-can-you-do?_ of the put-upon working man. Or so he hopes.

“Ah, of course. They went out to the old farm for New Year, you see.” As if that’s any kind of explanation. “I can give you the address if you need…?”

* * *

Snow is falling heavily now. Why the fuck he didn’t think to bring gloves, he has no idea. His boots aren’t the best on the ice either, and he’s abandoned the hire car at the bottom of the hill for fear of sliding it into a ditch.

This might be the second most expensive stupid thing he’s ever done. The first, of course, being his marriage. Not quite in that league yet, at least in terms of cost. Stupidity wise they may already be on a par.

This is what comes of listening to other people, he thinks. First Debbie, dangling the idea that a simple apology might be all it takes to… to…

Anyway, Ruth didn’t pick up, just as he predicted. And really, he was happy enough to call it a fucking day there. Yeah, he misses her. But he’s old enough and almost wise enough to know that time will numb the pain to something manageable. If he’s got that much time left. But, you know, either way problem solved…

Except, of course, Justine heard him leave the message.

_“Is she still not picking up?” _

_“No.” _

_“You should go to her.” _

_“What? Like some… deranged stalker?” _

_“No! Like, a concerned friend.” _

_“Concerned enough to fly halfway across the fucking country?” _

_ “This isn’t like Ruth. She’s sensible.”_

_“Hmm. Sometimes.”_

_“I mean, what if something happened to her?”_

And of course, _that_ thought then lodged in his deluded brain long enough that booking a flight started to seem… less crazy. He’s got to take a trip to New York, anyway. It’s a weird way to break the journey, but—

—but clearly nothing _has_ happened to her, he tells himself as he shivers and slips up the road. She’s not dead in a ditch, not flown away to start a new life in fucking Spain or somewhere. She’s just taking an extended New Year break with her folks. So why is he _here_? Other than the fact those ten minutes kissing her on the street might just be best of his whole damn life. Yeah, other than _that_, this makes no sense at all.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, having reached a door. He sighs, shaking his head, but reaches out to knock. Part of him hopes this house will be empty too. That they have already passed one another on the road, unknowing. That he can still slip away and pretend all this never happened. But he can see it isn’t empty. A light flickers down the hallway, visible through the frosted glass. And a shape now, is moving beyond.

Ruth opens the door, and his innards clench like he’s dropped over a cliff. “Hey, you already fini…?” Words die in her throat; a happy smile sliding off her face. It would be almost comical if he was watching it on screen rather than in real time. She goggles at him. There’s no other word for her expression of mingled shock and horror. “Sam?” she eventually manages. Like he’s already a ghost. “What—how are you _here_?”

He opens his mouth to try and explain—

“No! No, just, just, turn around!” She waves her hands, shooing him like a stray cat. “You can’t be here. My family are—”

“What, going to find out you stopped speaking to everybody? That you won’t take calls, won’t reply to letters—?”

“You never sent me any letters!” She stutters to a halt. “Oh-ho. Debbie sent you? Really?”

“No! Well, maybe! A bit! I don’t know. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ, Ruth. We were both worried you might be dead.”

“Well, I’m not! So, you can just turn around and tell Debbie—”

“Ruth, I’m not telling Debbie anything. Alright? Tell her yourself. I just – this is crazy. You’re being fucking crazy. Someone had to tell you that.” He’s less clear on why it had to be him. “Fuck. Look, I can’t feel my toes right now. Can I please just—?”

“No! You are _not _coming inside.”

“Fine. Then, will you at least come back to the car with me, so I can talk to you somewhere there’s a heater? Please. Talk, Ruth. Just talk.”

She’s going to tell him no again. Opens her mouth to say it—

“Stay there,” she commands, and shuts the door in his face.

“Sure. I mean, where the fuck else am I going to go?” he says to the wood. “Jesus Christ.” He tucks his bare fingers into his armpits, teeth chattering.

She opens the door again, now wearing a thick coat, hat and gloves. “Is that…? You didn’t bring any _gloves_?”

“I live in California—!” he starts, and she closes the door on him again. “God _damn _it.”

When she reappears, she has an enormous wool coat in her arms. A 1940s throwback reeking of mothballs. “Put this on.”

“What? No—”

“Just put it on, Sam! There are gloves in the pocket.”

He makes a noise of dissent, but he really is numb with cold. And Ruth is striding off down the road, her plans for today clearly not including the warm, the dry or the indoors. “Will you – can you wait for a fucking minute?” he manages, struggling to shrug the coat on over his jacket.

She folds her arms, irritated, but stops in her tracks. “I can’t believe you’ve done this,” she says, which was surely his line. “I just wanted some time away from everyone to think about things!”

“Well, maybe next time tell that to the people leaving you hundreds of fucking messages!” 

“Oh, like you told me when you were leaving Vegas?”

She’s moving again, more sure-footed on the ice than he is.

“That’s different!”

“Why, because it was you doing it?”

“No! Because you knew where I’d gone! And I thought you were going to call me about Justine’s script, anyway. Then you didn’t and I figured… maybe you just didn’t want to talk anymore. But I knew you weren’t _dead_. You were still sending those fucking production reports.” They’ve reached the hire car. “Ruth?”

She shakes her head. “No. I don’t want people driving up the road to see us.”

“So, where are we going?”

“I don’t know! Just away from here! You don’t have to follow me. You can get in your car and go home, Sam.”

“Fine! If that’s really what you want, I’ll go, I’ll go! I just…” He makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “Jesus, Ruth. We just wanted to know that you were okay.”

“I’m fine! I just want to be left alone—!”

“No, you’re not. You might be able to lie to yourself like that, but not to me. You’re not fine; not even fucking close. This is – this isn’t you.”

He can’t remember that last time she looked at him with such hate. “Yes,” she says, voice low with rage, “this is.”

“Alright! Okay! Then this is the you that I never cared for. The unbearable you. This is the Ruth that fucks other people’s husbands and-and breaks other people’s hearts. Is that really who you want to be again?”

She flinches at his words, the pink color in her cheeks blanching. Still, there’s poison in the well to draw. “Really? I broke your heart?” She shakes her head. “How about the time you… humiliated me in front of everyone? For weeks! Over those stupid opening credits! Did you just forget that? Or, or how about when you made me audition for a role I was never going to get, just so you could try to FUCK ME—!”

“I wasn’t trying to fuck you! I didn’t think you’d even have dinner with me!” He’s yelling too, now, loud enough that birds startle in the trees. “And I was going to _give_ you that fucking part! Justine was the one who wanted you to read for it.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Her eyes are glassy now with tears, blinking furiously. “I couldn’t even earn what you were prepared to give away?”

She turns, unable to look at him any longer. Staring out over the snowy fields instead, shaking her head. A wounded animal snarling defiance and so very close to running away. He can feel it.

If she bolts, it really is the end of everything between them. He’s traveled so far outside of his comfort zone already. This far, but no further. Everything lies on this knife-edge. And of course, he’s going to slip and cut himself. He always does. All that’s left is the finding out _how_.

“Look,” he tries. “I know what it feels like when people don’t recognize what you bring to the table, alright? I’ve spent a long, long time being the most bitter guy in the room—”

“What are you talking about? Your movies are cult classics!”

“Because people think they’re fucking comedies! And they’re not.” There’s a catch in his own voice now. “Not to me, anyway. I thought I was making something real.”

It’s her turn to sigh. “Well, you’re making something real now. Directing Justine’s film.”

“Yeah, because she refused to sell unless they put me on the slate! And I am… I am fucking terrified, Ruth. It’s been a long time since I directed a movie. I’ve never done anything on this scale. All I can think about, all the time, is that I’m going to fuck it all up. She is… so much better at this than I ever could be. And I’m just going to drag her down.”

He’s ashamed to find he’s crying. Not so much he can’t pretend the tears are flakes of falling snow, or the wind in his eyes, but still. It seems to happen more and more these days, without the cushion of booze and blow, and it’s fucking terrifying.

She’s still angry. He can see it in the line of her jaw. But some of the frantic flight-or-fight tension has ebbed.

“Keep walking,” she says, indicating a gate in the fence.


	2. What I came here to say

She leads him up the hill, following a game trail. Or maybe it’s a path trampled by curiously absent cattle. What does he know? He’s a city boy at heart; wise on streets but dumb on mud. Maybe she’s just leading him off the grid somewhere she can quietly murder him. He’s not sure he gives a fuck, anymore. Just follows in her footsteps, breath steaming in the cold air, flakes of snow melting on his borrowed coat.

Over the brow of the hill is cabin of some sort. A summerhouse shuttered now for winter. Ruth has the key, unlocking the front door and indicating he should step inside. It’s chintzy, a throwback to decades past like the coat he’s wearing, but meticulously clean and tidy. Dust sheets shroud the furniture.

“Nice place,” he quips.

“We stay up here sometimes. When there’s too many of us for the farmhouse.” She closes the door behind them, shutting out the snow, though it’s still barely warmer inside than out.

“Does that wood burner work?” Trying and failing to keep the hope out of his voice.

She nods. There’s lumber chopped and waiting, matches and paper for fire-lighting too. It’s very _Ruth_ in terms of the over-preparedness. For the first time he thinks about where that might come from; maybe it’s not just a quirk of her personality but a family trait.

She pulls off her hat, coat and gloves and lights the fire with practiced ease. Happy to have something to occupy her hands, her attention, rather than look at him. He just watches her dully, waiting for the other shoe to drop. From height, knowing his luck.

When the flames are crackling, she shuts the glass front of the burner and turns to face him. “Can you just… say whatever it is you came here to say?”

“What? I didn’t write a goddamn speech, Ruth.”

“But you – you wanted to talk—”

“Yeah, as in have a conversation! Maybe hear what the hell is going on with you. Not deliver a fucking monologue.” He chews his lip for a moment. “Maybe _you_ should start. You know, if you’ve got a whole script prepared.”

“I… I don’t.”

“O-kay,” he sighs, sinking down onto one of the dust-sheeted sofas. “Let’s try this, then. The deal with Debbie. Directing _GLOW 2: Return of the Slutty Vampires of Wrestling,_ or whatever the hell it’s going to be. I mean, we spent months squabbling over co-directing. And you were great at it in Vegas. So, why the fuck did you say no?” 

“Because! I… I…”

“What?”

“I don’t want to direct a dumb wrestling show!”

He blinks, in genuine surprise. “Really? _You_ think GLOW is dumb?”

“Yes! It’s… it’s hacky and stereotyped. And people get hurt. Plus, you know, it upsets people. Jenny and Arthie. Tammé. I don’t want to upset people like that.”

He folds his arms, immediately defensive. “Well, you know I never wanted to make that kind of show in the first place—”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Sam, I remember your… soft-core porn wrestling dystopia.”

It’s his turn to make a face. “No._ Wrath of Kuntar_ was—”

“Pure Sam Sylvia,” she cuts across. “Also not me.”

He throws up his hands. “Alright. Go make the sequel your thing, then. Have them do a wrestling pastiche of Chekhov, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want to do a wrestling pastiche of Chekhov, I want to _do_ Chekhov! And, yes, Shakespeare. and… and Strindberg and Miller and Ferber and…. _what_?”

He’s almost smiling. Almost. He doesn’t know when or why her earnestness transitioned from desperately irritating to endearing, but it did. “Why not pitch that to Debbie?” he continues. “So, you don’t want to make GLOW. Who cares? She’s got a whole schedule to fill. You could be their… nerd half-hour of beneficial programming. I mean, if that’s what you really want.”

“Right. Except, we couldn’t keep a show where women in leotards grappled with one another on the air. You really think any of _my_ ideas would stand a chance on cable television?”

“Ruth, KDTV has a show about fucking quilting. Yeah, I think if anyone can make a highbrow show work, it’s you. I mean, Jesus Christ, give you a concept and you come up with more ideas in half an hour than I’ve managed in a decade.” 

She’s shaking her head. “Now you’re just being—”

“What? Honest?”

“Self-deprecating.”

“Hmm. Is it working?”

She has to suppress a laugh at that, which was really his intent. “No. Look, I’m… I’m not even sure I want to work in television anymore.”

“Oh, right, right. You’re going to go back to being a real actor instead?”

“Maybe! Is that so bad?”

He shrugs. “Eh. I mean, you’re in the wrong town.”

“Omaha? I know that—”

“Not Omaha, you idiot. LA. Hollywood is fucking Hollywood; it’s the movies. You wanna be a theater kid, fine, but go to New York. Do the whole off-Broadway thing. Fuck, go to England and do real Shakespeare—”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“Because!” She sighs, realizing he’s not going to let her off the hook with just that. “Because… I’m over thirty! And I’m not _blonde_! And… maybe I’m not even that good in the first place…” 

And there it is, the crux of the matter. He rolls his eyes. “Really? This again?”

“What the hell do you mean, this again?”

“The ‘oh, woe is me’ thing. I mean it’s getting a little old, Ruth.”

“A little _old_?”

“Yeah! So, things haven’t worked out the way you planned yet. You just keep trying. Who gives a shit?”

“I do! You know I work _so _hard… And then other people; other people just _walk_ in and—”

“You mean Debbie?”

“Not just Debbie! Sheila. And-and Justine!” She gulps, seemingly horrified at the words spilling out of her own mouth. “I’m sorry. I… I don’t mean that—”

“Yeah, you do.” And if she was talking to anyone else, maybe they’d be just as horrified as she is, confronting her green-eyed monster. But Ruth’s got _nothing_ on the years of bile he’s stockpiled.

“No. She’s your daughter. I shouldn’t… say things like that to you.”

“Probably not. But this is me, Ruth. You think I don’t know what it feels like, watching other people pass you by? Christ. You wanna talk about failure? Let’s talk about how it feels to get thrown off your own set because a studio doesn’t want to work with you anymore. Or what it’s like to laugh off being called _terrone_ to your face, for an hour, and still not get the chance to direct. I can tell you what it’s like to walk in on a woman who stood and promised man and God she’d love you forever screwing someone else. That was a pretty low point. Or, uh, how about missing seventeen years of my daughter’s life ‘cos her mother thought I was such douchebag she’d be better off without me?

“And the worst part is, she was right! I mean, I’ve fucked up every good thing I’ve ever had. I’ve wrecked cars and movies and relationships and… _me_. Because I know I don’t deserve it. Any of it. Look, if you want to do the same, I can’t stop you. But I can show you where that road leads. And it’s lonely and it’s bitter and it’s just fucking _sad_.”

The crackle of the fire fills the silence that follows, but she doesn’t look away from him. She nods instead. “I know.”

“Right.” He can feel the tears, pricking behind his eyes again, turning his voice thick. “Then I guess I’ve said what I came here to say.” He stands up. “Thanks for the coat.”

His hand is on the door handle before she speaks again. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t… go yet.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to apologize.” She’s twisting her hands together now, in the agony of explanation. “You were right. When you said I was a—a nightmare. And I know that we can’t just go back to how things were. But I’m still sorry for the way that I acted. For what I said.”

“Really?”

She nods. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed being your friend, I’ve missed talking to you. I’ve missed this… particular brand of brutal honesty, even.”

He takes his hand off the handle. “Well, me too.” A shrug. “I don’t know what else I can say. You wanna just… start over?”

There is another long, long moment of silence. “You can do that?” 

“Yeah. I can do that. I think I _owe_ you that, after all the times I’ve been the dickhead. I mean, come on,” he laughs. “It’s not like either one of us has the monopoly on being an ass.”

She’s laughing too, unable to quite believe an apology can be so simple. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he says. He holds out his arms. “C’mere.”

She meets him halfway, folding into his embrace. He means it as a friendly thing, a reassurance that they can leave the bitter recriminations behind. But it still feels treacherously good. He finds he is burying his face in her neck as they cling to one another, flotsam on the rough tide of life.

And he shouldn’t kiss her. He knows that. He’s not a fucking idiot. But it’s almost impossible when she’s in his arms like this again. He presses his lips to her cheek instead, trying to keep things chaste. She doesn’t help him, turning her face to his. Her nose is cold as it bumps his, her breath warm against his mouth.

Fuck it.

He kisses her, hard. And somehow, in spite of everything, it _is_ the same as he remembers. Her mouth opening eager under his. Her hands on his face; wrapping around his neck—

“I didn’t come here to do this,” he says, when they break apart. Forehead still pressed against hers, eyes closed.

“I know. I know.” Another kiss, hungry and desperate. “You don’t want—?”

“Oh, God, I want,” he gasps. “You have…. no fucking idea.” 

She chuckles at that, and it’s sexy as hell. “I think I do,” she says, claiming his mouth again. Tugging at the lapels of his borrowed coat until he shrugs it off; the leather jacket underneath it too. The soft thump as they fall to the floor gives them both pause. For a breathless moment blue eyes rake his face, looking for the same thing in his expression that he seeks in hers. An answer to the unspoken question: are we really doing this?

She nods. Almost imperceptibly at first. More determined by the time his mouth meets hers, decision made. Her hands find their way underneath his shirt, like they did on the street outside _Boardner’s_. Was it only weeks ago? It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter, he tells himself, as his fingers fumble at the hem of her sweater. Her skin is so warm under his palm. Starting in the small of her back, moving up, up; the bony ridge of her spine under his fingertips. She isn’t wearing a bra. Hard to explain why, but he finds this fact ridiculously erotic. And – _fuck_ – he’s never needed to tear off someone’s clothes as badly as he does right now. 

The feeling is apparently mutual. He’s pretty sure he loses a button as she pulls him out of his shirt. Her sweater joins his jacket on the floor. “Oh, God,” he hears himself say. 

“What?” she smiles, knowing exactly what. “I mean, it’s not like you haven’t seen them before...”

“And do you know how hard it’s been to stop thinking about them since?” She presses against him. “Holy shit.”

Retaliation is the only defense, he decides. Sliding his hand roughly between them, dragging his thumb over her nipple. The prize is a soft gasp of pleasure. He dips his other hand below the waistband of her jeans as they kiss, incorrigible; finding her clit with his index finger. This time his reward is a moan. He gets greedy quickly; squeezing harder, slipping deeper. Until she takes matters back into her own hands, unbuttoning him deftly. Running her palm over the head of his erection before she wraps her fingers tight around his cock.

“Ruth,” he says, shaky with need. Just once. Like her name is a prayer, a talisman. And she’s won. She’s won like she always, _always_ does, and he doesn’t care. 

They fuck on the sofa, still covered by a dust sheet. It’s sweeter than he imagined it might be. She pushes him down and straddles him; taking him by inches as they kiss. Gentle and teasing, grinning against his mouth as he strains against her. Patience is a virtue he’s never really mastered, but he might be willing to learn it for her. He lets her set the pace, slow and deep. Her face in his hands, his mouth slipping to find her breasts. “Oh, fuck,” she gasps, self-control finally failing. He doesn’t have any words left. Just an echo of her noises, low in his throat; moving together harder and faster until there’s nothing left but to spend himself inside her.

For a moment all is still sensation. Sweat slick skin and the smell of her; the sound of their ragged breathing. His hand stays against her back, holding her close as his sense of self slowly returns. “Mm,” he says, eventually. Kissing her again, lazily now. They’re both smiling so hard it’s fucking disruptive. Sharing a laugh back and forth, between more kisses, though he couldn’t say what it is that’s so funny. He’s used to rolling off and moving away. With anyone else he’d be lighting up that first post-coital cigarette about now and turning his brain back on, able to think about other things. But even without the sharp edge of need, he still can’t let Ruth go.

She sighs happily, letting him pull her into his arms instead. Stroking his face, as his fingers tangle in her hair. Her brow quirks as she considers him. She doesn’t say anything, but he knows there’s a question that’s waiting to be asked.

“What?” he says.

“You haven’t smoked. This whole time. I mean, not that I’m complaining—”

He stops her with a kiss. “I used up my whole ration on the drive over here. But thanks for reminding me.” 

“Ration? You’re… cutting down?”

“Trying to quit.” It’s fucking hard though. Five a day is better than fifty, but he’s aware it might not be good enough. 

“Hmm.”

“_What_?”

“No, just, you lose weight; you cut down on cigarettes…”

“Well, maybe I want to be around for the next few years. See how things pan out.”

She chuckles. “Sounds almost sensible.”

“All that hanging around with you, some of it had to rub off—” A gust of wind drives snow against the window, the rattling sound making them both look up at the glass. “Fuck. The weather really doesn’t kid around here, huh?”

“You’re going to have to dig that car out.”

“Oh, God…”

She traces an aimless pattern on his chest for a while. “When do you need to get back to the airport, anyway?”

“Tomorrow. Six. I’ve got a meeting in New York.”

“Did you—do you have a plan for between now and then?”

His mustache twitches at this piece of guilelessness. “I think that’s up to you.”

“Well, we could hide you in here...”

“Wow, slow down there, Mr Rochester.” He rolls his eyes at her squeak of surprise. “Don’t worry, I haven’t read it. But watching Joan Fontaine was a formative teenage experience—”

“—_or_ you can come for dinner,” she continues, pointedly ignoring his digression. “Stay in the house.”

“Hmm. Meet the parents or freeze to death in a cabin in the woods.” He shakes his head. “Christ. I wonder what it’s like to have a normal life?”

“No, you don’t.”

He laughs and kisses her again. For the novelty of it; because he still wants to. “You weren’t exactly keen on me meeting anybody earlier.”

“I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to be real. I don’t really want to face making a decision yet...”

He nods. There’s not just a snowstorm outside, there’s a whole reality out there to deal with. And he’s not fool enough to think he’s a likely part of whatever future she decides to build. Not even sure he _should_ be. So: fuck it. Nothing left but to embrace the full weirdness of the situation and take whatever time they have left together.

“Alright,” he says, although large parts of his personality disagree. “I guess I do owe you a family dinner…”


	3. Unbalanced equation

“So, what’s the deal with this place, anyway?”

He’s not going to say it to Ruth, but there’s a heavy horror movie vibe to the whole farmhouse. White timbers. Tall, almost church-like windows. Miles and miles of empty fields outside. Yes; he’d soon have the walls running with blood. The heroine of the piece could lurch down the hallway, axe in hand. Ready to fight off monsters that crawl out from the—from the— well, from whatever the fuck crops they grow out here.

“It was my grandfather’s farm. And then after he died my Uncle Petey took over.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“I wasn’t going to be.”

“Mmm.”

“You know, my grandfather was a farmer too.”

“Really?” She wrinkles her nose, clearly unsure if he’s serious or just teasing her. 

“Yeah. Olives.”

“Oh! Of course. Italy.”

He puts his head on one side. “Sicily. And then after he died, the fascists took over…”

She catches his grin and shakes her head, amused in spite of herself at his dark humour. He might love her most of all in these moments, he thinks. The realisation settles in his stomach like a stone.

“I guess they’re not back from the store yet,” she continues, oblivious to his sudden distress. “You want a tour?” She puts on a mocking tone but there’s a real offer underneath, he’s all too aware.

“Oh, absolutely,” he returns, similarly arch. “Can’t fucking wait…”

* * *

“Is that… you?”

“Oh, God.”

“That _is _you. What was this, your first part?”

He’s looking at old photographs ranged on the dresser. There’s a multitude of dark haired, blue-eyed Wilders preserved under dusty glass, but he can spot the young Ruth a mile off.

“No. I just – I liked that outfit with the puffy sleeves—”

“You look like Anne of fucking Green Gables.”

“Well, that was kind of the point,” she says, not quite under her breath.

“Jesus—”

Further commentary is mercifully cut short by the sound of the front door opening. “Ru-uth?”

He knows a moment of pure, teenaged, panic. Maybe it’s the time-warp décor, already giving him the queasy feeling he’s travelled back in time to the 1950s. Ruth gives him a sort of frenzied nod; instruction to do what he’s not sure. “Coming!” she calls.

He really doesn’t want to follow her out of the guest room, but he is, he reminds himself, very much a fucking grown up. Hiding really isn’t an option. He traipses after her into the hallway. A couple he assumes are Mom and Pop are stamping snow from their boots, laden with shopping.

“Oh, it was a _nightmare_ down there. Honestly, sweetie, you made the right—Oh!” Mrs Wilder puts her hand to her mouth in shock at the sight of him.

“Hi,” he deadpans. “Sam.” There’s more information clearly needed. “Uh, we worked together. On the show. GLOW.” 

Ruth gives him a look, like he’s actually an imbecile. On reflection it _is_ likely they know the name of the TV show their daughter starred in. “Sam’s flight was—”

“—redirected—”

“—cancelled.” There is a beat of silence. She closes her eyes in brief despair at his inability to ever help his own case, but the show must go on. “Redirected then cancelled,” she continues brightly. “So, I invited him for dinner.”

“Oh, of course,” continues Mrs Wilder. “With this weather, the travel has been so difficult this year…”

He isn’t really listening, finding himself under the cool blue-eyed gaze of Ruth’s father. There are two immediate uncomfortable realisations: one, the high school teacher isn’t _remotely_ fooled by their ridiculous display; and two, they’ve made distressingly similar choices regarding facial hair.

“Robert,” he says, extending a hand. Sam shakes it carefully. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Uh, likewise.”

“You want a coffee? Or something stronger?”

“Coffee,” Sam replies firmly, “would be great.” 

* * *

“Oof, these are pretty lively ones, actually.”

He looks up at Ruth from where he is peeling potatoes, her eyes streaming from the effects of the aforementioned onions. “Wash your face,” he suggests, clearing the sink and knocking on the faucet for her.

“I think I’m going to have to.” She splashes water, flinching slightly; that slightly over-the-top reactiveness she has when she’s feeling awkward and trying to hide it. “You know, it’s times like this I miss the buffet.”

“You alright?”

“I think so.” Still blinking furiously. “Ugh. Maybe there’s an eyelash in there too?”

“Let me see.” He rinses his starchy fingers clean, bringing her under the light and turning her face gently to look. “Nope. Can’t see anything… What?” 

She’s smiling. That gentle, lip-biting grin she has when he’s being an oblivious idiot.

“_What_?” he whispers again, completely at sea. She leans forward and kisses him softly in reply. Oh. That. He’s stupid enough to go along with it for a moment, until his brain presents him with the trio of _father, farmhouse, shotgun_ for consideration. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

“Sam, they’re not like that—”

Right on cue comes the sound of footsteps. He jumps away from her as if someone has just applied the electrodes. It’s not subtle. He has all the energy of a cat that only just managed to land on its feet, and Ruth is still pink-faced and grinning like an idiot.

Mary – he’s pretty sure that’s her mother’s name – gives them both a slightly worried look. “How are you ki—you both doing in here?”

“We’re fine. You know, Sam’s never had a proper steak before.”

“I wouldn’t say _that_—”

“Oh, _Del Gould_ is practically unbeatable,” Mary enthuses. “We rarely buy anything else.”

“Uh-huh,” he manages, as she continues to wax lyrical with distinctly Ruth-ish enthusiasm. They don’t look particularly alike, but they do have a similar voice, the same mannerisms. It makes him feel strange, like he’s watching something on stage rather than really here in the room with them.

He picks up the vegetable knife again as they chatter, and continues peeling.

* * *

“So, your first movie was about… cannibals?” Robert says. He’s trying, Sam can tell, but he still sounds a little pained.

“Yeah.”

“And then the next one, the one that really launched your career. That was about, uh… what _was_ it about?”

“_Couch of Pain_? A haunted sofa.”

There is a pause. “And these were… serious movies?”

“Dad—”

“Well, I mean they were surrealist,” Sam replies, taking up his own defense. “The ridiculousness is supposed to, you know, jolt your unconscious. Really fuc—uh—fully mess up your brain.” 

“And were you trying to do something similar with GLOW?”

“Sometimes. I’d say we were aiming for a broader comedic tone, though.” He needs reinforcements. “Right, Ruth?”

“Yeah, absolutely! And it was a tough balancing act. Trying to honour your original intention to make something outside of the mainstream, but keeping things recognisable for a wrestling audience. They were already sceptical because we, well, because we were women. And on top of that there were the issues with budget. I mean, KDTV were never exactly generous with us…”

Mary catches his eyes across the table, as Ruth’s dissection continues, and he realises he’s staring.

“She’s good at this, isn’t she?” 

“Oh, no,” Ruth demurs. “No, I’m—”

“Yeah. She is.”

She bites her lip, not sure where he plans to take this. He’s not really sure himself. “Well, I had a good mentor,” she offers.

He makes a face. The intention may be kind, but the compliment is undeserved. “I don’t think I was much of a teacher. You picked up the reigns right back when we were making the pilot. I know I wasn’t exactly gracious about it at the time.” He’s talking into pin-drop silence now, Ruth’s frozen expression unreadable. “But there aren’t many people who could do that.”

“I like performing, though,” she replies eventually, tone brittle. 

“I know, I know. So, maybe you need to find a project where you can do both.”

Robert clears his throat, very carefully, reminding them that there are two other people also sat around the dining table. “Are there many projects like that?”

“No,” Ruth says softly.

Sam looks at his plate, at the bleeding and frankly perfectly mediocre steak they’ve served, rather than reply.

* * *

_Knock-knock_. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, Ruth.” He’s lying on his back on the narrow bed, still fully dressed, a paperback in hand.

“I can leave you alone if—”

“I don’t want you to leave me alone.” He sighs. “I just want a cigarette.”

“You can smoke if you want.”

“Nope. No. I’ve had my five for today.” He puts his book down on the floor and sits up with a groan. “Did you ring Debbie?”

“I rang Debbie’s answering machine,” Ruth confesses, wincing slightly. “But… I’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Hmm.” He’s sceptical but decides to let things lie for now. “So, are you going to just stand in the doorway for the rest of the night?”

“No.” She comes to sit primly next to him. “What?”

“We don’t have to keep the door open three inches?” 

She rolls her eyes at his petulance. “No.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’s that?” Eyebrows raised, biting her lips again. Always so artless when it comes to flirtation. Still, it works on him, so why complain?

“As if you don’t fucking know.” He kisses her. She still tastes of dessert; of jell-o and vanilla ice cream. A hint of chocolate sprinkles.

“I thought you were mad at me,” she says, as his lips trace across her jaw; down her neck.

“No.” Frustrated, maybe, at her inability to recognise her own talent; but it’s hard to explain and he can think of better uses for his mouth right now. She misreads his intent, reaching for the button of his jeans. He catches hold of her hands.

“You don’t want—?”

“I want to go slow.”

“Oh!” It almost breaks his resolve there and then, the light that dawns in her eyes at this statement. The pleasant surprise of being savoured. “Okay.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

And so they do. He pulls her into his lap and they make out like teenagers. Taking their time to remove his glasses, strip down to their underwear. He maps every inch of her. Kissing over her breasts, down her stomach; inside the curve of her hipbone. Even the back of her knees. Eventually his mouth moves across faded cotton panties that he grins to find are wet for him. It’s a long-standing fantasy to bury his face between her legs, borne of those ungodly high-cut leotards, he thinks. He tugs her panties aside with a crooked finger and teases her with his tongue. Fingers wind into his hair, tugging almost painfully, until finally he tears them off and tastes her fully.

She grabs a pillow after a while, covering her face to muffle her noises as her body rises under his mouth. He makes an involuntary sort of noise himself as she stifles her climax. Vaguely hypnotised by the way her chest heaves; how the muscles in her stomach contract and relax as she regains her breath.

“Come and kiss me,” she says eventually, and he does what he’s told. Groaning when she reaches down to touch him, finding him painfully hard. “Do you want me to—?”

“I’m so close,” he confesses.

She grins at that, thoroughly wicked. “Good.” Before he can make any other response, she slides down the bed and takes him in her mouth.

“Oh,” he says, stupefied. “Fuck.” Turnabout is fair play, he supposes, and he shudders into his own orgasm seconds later. 

* * *

She dozes on his chest as he drifts through layers of consciousness, in an oxytocin haze. The wind howls and moans outside, and the house creaks. There’s a grandfather clock in the dining room. He can hear it chiming out the hours, on the edge of hearing. Sometime after midnight he realises they’re both lying quietly awake. “Wanna talk about it?” he says.

“A little.” He can feel her mouth quirk, a smile against his skin. “How’d you know?”

“I know you.”

“So, do you think I—?”

“Nope.”

“No… what?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. This one’s on you.” 

She nods, quiet again for a while. “What do you want?” she tries. 

He thinks about it. “I don’t know, Ruth. I love you.” She stiffens at the declaration, but it’s old news as far as he’s concerned, and saying it aloud doesn’t really change anything. “I know that much. But I’m not sure it’s really enough. It might be nice if we were in the same city again and could just… hang out. If I could come and see your plays, or your show, whatever it is you wind up doing. If you could come and visit set sometimes. Yeah. That’d be… that’d be nice.”

“Is that… all?”

“Yeah. That’s all.”

He can tell she’s surprised at how small his dreams have become. But that’s the point, really; the thing he’s not telling her. His world is shrinking down in on itself, as she’s trying to grow hers outward. There’s no way that equation can balance out.

“Will you call me?” she asks. “When you – when you get to New York?”

“Yeah,” he says. She presses a kiss to his chest, unknowing, over his breaking broken heart. “I can do that.”


	4. Dig deep

It’s Robert, rather than Ruth, that brings the shovels to dig out the hire car. He can’t pretend he hasn’t been expecting this.

“She’s making you up a flask,” he says, by way of explanation.

“Ah.”

They work in silence for a while. Robert is a shade taller than he is, thin but sinewy under his flannel shirt. A deep kind of stillness to him that reads to Sam more and more like a hard war. Korea, if he had to guess, although maybe he was just old enough to catch the Pacific theater. If it’s the eighth-graders, things have _really_ gone downhill in the public-school system since Sam was a student.

“You know, they say it’s a father’s job to worry about his daughter.” The shovel scrapes ground. “But I’ve never had to with my Ruth. She’s always so sensible. A hard worker. Makes the smart choices.”

“Mmm,” he replies, he hopes diplomatically. He won’t dispute the hardworking part, at any rate.

Robert stops shoveling. Sam looks up, and blue eyes precisely the same shade as his daughter’s nail him to the ice. “You want to maybe tell me what all this is about?”

“All this?” He manages to keep the squeak out of his voice, but only just.

Robert waves a hand. “She comes home with her tail between her legs, says she’s not sure what she’s doing with her life. Not talking to her friends, barely talking to her family... And then you show up.”

He grimaces. “It’s not – I mean, it probably isn’t what it looks like.”

“And what’s that?”

His sigh turns to smoke in the frozen air. “Some Hollywood sleazeball, dicking her around?”

“Hm.” Robert nods, turning his attention back to a recalcitrant piece of ice. “You’re right. That _is_ what it looks like.”

“Look, man, I don’t know what I can fucking say to prove it’s nothing like that—"

“Well, let me see if I can guess.” _Scrape, scrape, scrape_ goes the shovel. “How about this: you know it sounds corny, but you’ve just never felt this way about a woman before. She’s your muse, you can’t work without her; and you had some silly fight that’s over now—”

“No,” Sam cuts across flatly. “Not even close.”

“Then give me a clue.”

“I can’t! I don’t know what she’s already told you about what happened, but it’s not my fucking place to fill you in on the details she didn’t. If you wanna know what’s going on with Ruth, talk to Ruth. I don’t speak for her.”

“I’ve tried.” It comes out very calmly, but there’s a tightness around Robert’s eyes that betrays him. “She won’t talk to me. And that’s what scares me.”

Sam nods, hacking at the snow again despondently, for want of something better to do. “I’m sorry. I know that you’re… that you’re close.” 

They work in silence for a while. “You have a daughter, too, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“What would you do if she came home broken-hearted and… not herself?”

It terrifies him, just how much it hurts to picture Justine in such a way. “Well, first of all I’d call her mother,” he manages, trying to swallow that fear. “And once I’d crossed _that_ off the list, I’d… hang around until I annoyed her so much she yelled at me what was wrong.” He’s not sure he particularly likes the way Robert is looking at him, given this parenting revelation. “I’d guess we’re pretty different kinds of people,” he adds, defensive.

“I guess so.” 

“Look,” he tries, “I came out here because I was worried something had happened to Ruth. And because, in spite of outward appearances, we have a lot in common. I was scared she might be about to make the same kind of mistake that I have in the past. Lose an opportunity she deserves because she’s feeling shitty about herself. I wanted to remind her what a stupid fucking idea that would be.”

“But why would she be feeling shitty? She’s finally achieved the stability she’s been working so hard for all these years.”

And there is the crux of it, perhaps. The Ruth he thinks he knows isn’t aiming for stability. She’s an artist. Like him. She’s got something to say and needs the world to shut up and _listen_. Maybe that’s just hard to reconcile with a practical, sensible personality and reasonable parental expectations. He wouldn’t know.

“I don’t know exactly why she’s hurting. I have some ideas and I want to help her where I can. So do her friends back in LA. But… Ruth is her own woman. Probably more so than anyone I’ve ever known. Some of this shit she’s got to just work out for herself.”

Robert nods. “It’s hard to hear that,” he says, “as a parent. But I think… I _think_ that I’m glad she’s got you on her side.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” It would have been an effort not to make that sentence sound sarcastic, and frankly he hasn’t bothered.

“That doesn’t, however, mean I approve of her dating someone twice her age.”

“We’re not... dating.”

“Oh, right. Just sleeping together?”

He almost swallows his tongue. But a denial would be rather pointless; and pointing out their night in the guest bedroom is the first and probably _last_ one they’ll ever spend together isn’t going to win him any prizes.

Ruth herself comes to his rescue before he’s managed to think of a suitable reply, carrying the promised flask. “You ready to go?” she calls.

There is a beat, a glance of understanding between the two men. “Yeah,” says Sam. “I think so.”

“You need to get on the road,” she fusses as she reaches them. “I know it’s a domestic flight but Eppley can really back up around the holiday season...”

“I’ll be alright,” he demurs. He offers his hand to Robert. “Thank you for the hospitality.”

“Goodbye, Sam. Safe travels.” He grinds the bones of Sam’s hand together, far harder than necessary, but is gracious enough to turn and walk back up the hill to give them a moment alone.

“So, what? You want me to… post this back to them?” he asks, incredulous, indicating the elderly Thermos.

“No,” she replies, scornful. “I’ve met you. I know that isn’t going to happen.” She bites her lip. “How about... you consider it a loan?”

The meaning isn’t lost on him, though he’s long gotten used to the absence of his old watch. “Alright,” he says. “Come and pick it up from me some time.” He puts the thing in the cupholder. Inevitably he’s going to knock it over, and the whole endeavour will wind up more trouble than the kindness is worth. But he’ll deal with that future when he gets there.

“I know you hate goodbyes,” she says, rocking back on her heels. “So, I’m going to just turn around and—"

He kisses her. It’s a bad habit he’s going to have to lose, along with all the others. “It’s not goodbye,” he says, by way of explanation. “It’s _au revoir_.”

“That’s... the same thing but in French.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

She’s still looking at him, half amused and half annoyed, by the time he’s found his seat behind the wheel. “Look it up,” he suggests. “And then let me know when you work it out.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “Just, take care of yourself, Sam.”

“Oh, I won’t,” he replies, pulling away with a wave and smile that lasts _almost_ all the way to Eppley airfield.

* * *

“Hey!” Justine looks up from her typewriter as he enters, set up on the dining room table again. “How’d it go?”

“Jesus, can you maybe give me five minutes to have a piss and a cup of fucking coffee?” He swings the holdall bag off his shoulder, dumping it on the sofa. She’s still looking at him, eyebrows raised and not at all cowed by his grousing. “It went fine. Alright? McCarthy is in, and the New York casting… looks good. Why is your typewriter on the table again? You have a desk in your fucking room.”

“The light’s better in here.”

“Uh-huh.” He heads into the kitchen, for a longed-for final smoke of the day, and a coffee to further sweeten the deal. 

“Better?” she asks, arch, when he’s taken his first drag.

“You have _no_ idea.” 

There’s post for him on the side. The usual circular crap, a brown envelope that’s probably a fucking parking fine knowing his luck, and a white envelope with neat green lettering he doesn’t recognise.

“What about the other thing?”

“What other thing?” Yep, a pyramid scheme; a reminder he still owes thirty dollars to the City of Los Angeles Department of Transportation; and—

_Dear Mr Sylvia,_

_This is a reminder that your cardiology appointment will take place at 10:30 on the 14th February 1987. You have been scheduled for an ekg. You may eat and drink normally before this test—_

“Ruth!” continues Justine, over the sudden ringing in his ears. “Did you manage to see her or not?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, folding the letter. “Yep. I saw her.”

“And?” his daughter demands.

“Well, she’s not dead.”

“...You are un-fucking-believable.”

“I know, I know…”

“Well, am I ever gonna see her again? Or am I like, just, dead to her now—?”

“Strange as it may seem, we didn’t actually spend that much time talking about you.” He considers things. “I did meet her parents.”

“Woah. What was that like?”

“Er, awkward.”

“I’ll bet.”

She’s still looking at him, expectant. “That’s it. I’m not telling you any more.”

“Oh, come on—”

“No-oo. This is me drawing an appropriate parent boundary line.”

“Oh, wow, I wondered what those looked like.”

“Uh-huh. So, what’s the fucking deal with the typewriter? You starting a sequel already?”

“No, this is something a little different…”

“Right, right.” He slips the hospital letter into his pocket unnoticed, and follows her out of the room to find out.

* * *

He tries not to think about the letter too much, but it creeps up on him again when he lies down to sleep. He puts his hand to his chest, feeling the steady _thump-thump_ through his palm. A Valentine’s Day appointment for a broken heart – how the fuck did anyone think _that_ was appropriate? And shooting starts just the week before. His heart beats faster under his hand, cold sweat prickling on his forehead. There's his other fucking problem: it's increasingly difficult to tell the difference between the rising state of terror and panic he finds himself in, and the next heart attack.

He sighs, screwing up his face in the dark. He wants a cigarette, wants a drink. Wants someone to come over and distract him from impending doom by way of his dick. Anything, really, that isn’t lying here alone facing up to just how fucked he is really is.

He turns over, pummeling his pillow. They’re temporary distractions, anyway, he reminds himself. He’d still be here in a few hours starting the same cycle all over again. Unless he actually managed to kill himself with his bad habits, and he doesn’t want Justine to have to deal with that. All part of the not-fucking-it-up-for-her plan he’s rapidly running into a brick wall with.

Because he can’t fucking direct her movie. He doesn’t trust his own instincts anymore. The scale of it is all wrong. He wants to shoot fast and claustrophobic; dig in to the chaotic energy of the young cast they’re assembling. Set the weirdos free. But the studio is nervous, hand-holdy. Feel good, they keep saying. Well, yeah, he wants to say – by the _end_. Feel good is what you get when you strip away all the dark soul-suck angst of being seventeen and pissed off at the world. You can’t have a rainbow without any fucking rain.

What he really wants to do, of course, is call Ruth to talk about it. It was a lot easier when she was practically waiting at the door to critique his every idea; a shout down from his office away. Or, for four glorious weeks before he managed to fuck _that_ up, in the hotel room next door.

_(They used to knock on the wall. A line in the sand she’d drawn: no being in Sam’s room alone after hours. And so he went around it by _tap-tapping_, until she’d pick up the room ‘phone and call him:_

_“What is it _now_?” _

_“I was thinking about the toxic twins’ transformation.” _

_“Okay, shoot_ _—” _

_Within days she was tapping back: _

_“Hear me out_ _—” _

_“Hear you out? Ruth, it’s almost one am!” _

_“I know, but you obviously heard the knock! So, I was thinking_ _—)_

She’s still, as far as he knows, in Nebraska. Back at her parent’s house, for which he has the number. Midnight here makes it ten o’clock there. Late to call, but not unreasonable.

But it’s only three days since he rang her from New York. Fucking needy.

No booze, no blow, and a severely restricted intake of nicotine, he reminds himself. Of _course,_ he’s fucking needy. And as bad habits go, Ruth is the one least likely to actually kill him. He’s gone cold turkey there before and lived to tell the tale. Made it through to relapse, in fact, so hard that at midnight he’s tying himself in knots over whether or not to fucking call her…

“Oh, fuck,” he says to the ceiling, and picks up the ‘phone.


	5. Trust and truth

“You wanna know the truth?”

“Always.”

“I don’t think I can fucking do it.” Silence, the clicking of the long-distance line. “Hey, are you still there? Did you stroke out on me, or what?”

“I’m still here! I’m just… thinking.”

“That bad, huh?”

“No! I just don’t want to say the wrong thing when we’ve only just started speaking again.”

“We’re way past that, Ruth. Just give it to me straight.”

“Ok. I think that… If you roll over and just do what they tell you the whole time, you’re right. You won’t be able to do it. So, stop second guessing yourself! You’re best when you’re butting heads with someone. You trust Justine and she trusts you. Who cares what the rest of them think? This is your movie. Make _your_ fucking movie.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“Strong words there.”

“Well, I’m serious.”

“I can tell.” He rolls onto his back, his ear aching from the pressure of the receiver. “Thank you.”

It can’t be easy for her, after all, giving him advice about a movie she was cut out from. Not for the first time, he wonders if he should have tried to bring her in as a creative adviser or assistant director rather than as an actress. But she’s even less experience of that on paper, and with the studio twitchy as they are, he doubts he’d have been able to swing it. Or that she’d even have accepted – look at what happened to Debbie when she tried that route.

“Did you fall asleep?”

“No, no. I’m still clinging to consciousness.”

“Good…I rang Glynis today.”

“Your friend from college?”

“Yeah, the one in New York. She’s putting together an off-off-Broadway tribute to Tom Stoppard.”

“Stoppard… he’s English, right?”

“Well, technically Czech, but he was educated in England.” 

He chuckles, remembering her impression from the back seat of his car, what feels like a lifetime ago. “I know you can do the accent.”

“It’s small. But I can direct, and I can act. Connect with things again.”

“Did you, uh, talk to Debbie about it?”

“I did… I also talked to her about GLOW.”

“_GLOW Two_,” he corrects. “_Spandex Bugaloo_. You can have that one for free.”

It’s her turn to laugh. “Well, they’re still dealing with the fallout from the takeover, trying to figure out what they want to keep from the current schedule. So, there’s a little time for me to… have a toe in both waters.”

“Sounds great.”

She makes that little excited squeaking noise he used to find deeply irritating and now… Well, he still finds it deeply irritating. He’s not entirely surrendered his personality yet.

Silence stretches between them again, and for the sake of avoiding a bank loan to pay for this call, it’s probably time to hang up. “Well… it’s been great talking to you, Ruth.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “We should… do it again sometime.”

“I’d like that.”

She takes a breath, in and out, just audible down the line. “_Au revoir_, Sam.”

He smiles, in spite of himself. “Speak soon, Ruth.” He puts down the handset and screws up his face, resisting the urge to even _think_ the words so close to the tip of his tongue. “Yeah,” he says, to himself in the dark instead. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

“You’re… worryingly chipper,” Justine remarks, slinking into the dining room with a mug of coffee, as he hums over the remains of his breakfast. Grapefruit and wholemeal toast; just what the cardiologist ordered. And the first, blessed cigarette of the day, which he definitely didn’t.

“I am. I’m going to see Todd this morning. The DP? Talk over the plans.” He taps his fingers on his overstuffed portfolio, filled with sketches and storyboards.

“Didn’t Jonathan want to—?”

“Fuck Jonathan,” he says. “He’s a producer. _This_ is cinematography. This stuff, I know.” 

For a second, there is just the hint of a frown on Justine’s face. But it clears in the face of his good mood. “You’re right,” she says. “You gonna look in on the rehearsals on set?”

“Yup. I’m even going to take some photos.”

Her smile broadens. “Wow.”

“I’ll be back for dinner.” He punts his keys into the air, catching them one-handed. “You around?”

“Absolutely.”

“Great,” he says, and means it. 

He’s still humming by the time he reaches the lot, smiling a greeting to the girls on the reception desk, finding his way to their little production office. There’s a smell in the corridor that takes him back thirty years, to the first set he ever worked on. The first camera he ever held. He takes a deep breath, trying to recall the cocksure arrogance of that skinny kid, burning with desire to prove himself.

Make _your_ fucking movie, says the Ruth in his head. Yeah.

* * *

“Ma’am! Hi, yes, sorry! Can I help you?”

The reedy voice of Carl, the runner, cuts through the background noise of hammering and sawing. Sam looks up from the storyboards he’s discussing with Todd to see who the intruder might be. “Hang on one second?”

“No problem, Mr Sylvia.”

Cherry is giving young Carl a tight, polite smile. “I’m here to see Sam Sylvia?”

“The director? I’ll just—oh, there he is! Mr Sylvia, this lady says she’s here to see you—?”

“Yeah, I know, I invited her.” She’s surprised he goes in for the hug but squeezes him back tightly. “Cherry. You look great. How’s it going?” 

“Not as well as it seems to be for you,” she says, when she lets him go. “Look at this place!”

“I know, I know…” He shakes his head. “I’m glad you could make it over. How’s Keith?”

“We’re both good. You want to tell me why I’ve driven over here to almost get kicked off the lot by some kid?” 

“Well, I wanna offer you a job. Stunt co-ordinating.”

She gives him a sceptical look. “I thought this was high school movie?”

“It is, but there’s a couple of big fight scenes. One at a punk gig, uh, one at the school…” She still looking unconvinced. “It’s girl on girl,” he continues, “I mean, c’mon, who else was I going to fucking call?” 

“Alright. I’m not going to turn down paid work.”

“Great! Come on over and I’ll introduce you to the cast. Then we can get you set up in one of the rehearsal rooms—”

Her fingers on his arm stop him mid-pilot. “Isn’t that the guy from _Miami Vice_?”

“Oh, Ed? Yeah.”

“He’s in _your_ movie?”

“Well, it’s more Justine’s than mine. But, yeah.”

“Who’s he playing?”

“Uh,” he swallows. “The, uh, the Dad character.”

Cherry takes a step back to look at him and make sure he isn’t joking. “_He’s_ playing _you_?”

It’s an awkward truth he’s been avoiding, even in his own head. But there’s no real getting around it. “Yup.”

“Damn, Sam!”

“I know. I know,” he says again.

“Does _he_ get to fight anybody?”

“No. Actually, he’s not in it all that much. It’s why we were able to hire him between seasons. C’mon, let me introduce you to the others—”

* * *

He brings lunch for her, blocking moves on the almost completed set. Sandwiches and fruit and a sugar-dusted donut. Cherry is putting the young actors through their paces with her customary focus. He sits a little way away, on the fake high school bleachers, tucking up his legs and watching them quietly.

“Yeah,” Cherry is saying, shifting a handhold, moving a foot. “That’s it. You’ve got it. Now, twist!”

The girls spin and tumble, and he smiles. It looks good. Real.

“Is that what you wanted?”

“Yes. Now let’s reset, take it from the top again.” Only when they’ve done it twice, three times perfectly does Cherry release her young charges and come over to join him.

He pushes over the sandwiches. “Saved you some lunch.”

“Thanks.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s like working with four of Ruth and Carmen. Not your usual amateurs.”

He nods, pressing his lips together. “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

“You don’t need me for three days,” she continues, between bites of turkey and swiss. “They’ll have this in two.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’m still gonna pay you for three. Unless, you know, you’re rolling in it now over there as chief stunt woman at _Bash Howard TV_.”

“They’re… not calling it that. And I’ve not had any real work from them yet.”

“Well, from what I hear it was pretty fucking whitebread. It’ll take a bit of time to corrupt them with the, uh, what was it? Oh, yeah, tasteless sexuality and gratuitous violence we sold as fucking kid’s TV.”

She laughs. “_That’s_ a Sam Sylvia production.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure anyone’s really going to miss ‘em. But it was fun while it lasted.”

Cherry makes a face. “You really think this is the future?”

“I mean, if Justine and her friends have anything to do with it, yeah.” He can’t help but feel he’s missed something important, from her frown. “What?”

“What do you see when you look at this set, Sam?”

“Money,” he says, because that much is obvious. “Respectability, maybe. Why, what do you see?”

She puts her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “A lot of white people.”

“Ah.” He runs his tongue over his teeth, nodding as she continues.

“I mean, you heard that kid earlier. He was damn sure I was in the wrong place. You know, I’ve put up with a lot of shit from you over the years. But even when you were right down at the bottom… I knew we’d be welcome there with you. We just weren’t fool enough to go.”

He laughs. “True.” His fingers are reaching automatically for his shirt pocket, and a cigarette that isn’t there. He sighs and stuffs his hand in his jeans instead. “You want that donut?”

She runs her eye over him. “Doesn’t look like you’ve been eating too many of them recently.”

“How about we go halves?”

* * *

“Hey!” he calls, door slamming behind him. “I’m back. Not feeling much like cooking, I’ll be honest. You wanna get a pizza?” There is no answer. He drops his keys and the one-hour-photo wallet on the dining table, sticking his head into the kitchen. “Justine?”

There is no one there. He can tell from the feel of the house, really, that she’s out somewhere else. He sighs, sagging dispirited. “Ah, come on.”

He finds her note when he collapses down onto the sofa, left for him on the coffee table.

_Invited to a table read by J & M! Back late. Don’t wait up. Will make up dinner. I promise._

_J x _

“Oh, sure,” he says aloud, to no one. “Now I have to spend the whole evening with nothing but my own fucking company.”

He futzes around for a while, trying to avoid his own thoughts. Looking through the photographs he’s taken on set. He pulls aside one that Todd shot, of him and Cherry smiling up at the camera together. If he was sentimental he’d keep things like this more carefully. He’s not sure there’s a single still of him from the set of GLOW; or in anything he’s done for the last five years, for that matter.

Shit, maybe he’s not been in a photograph since his _wedding_. It’s a sobering thought, and he’s already _very_ fucking sober.

He could have one drink. One drink isn’t going to do that much damage. Right?

The trouble is, one drink always ends up arriving in a dozen glasses. It’s like the tables at Vegas. He’s either through the looking glass or here in reality; there really isn’t a middle ground.

He drums his fingers on the arm of the sofa, making up his mind.

* * *

He wakes with a snort to the sound of keys in the door. Justine, letting herself back in. Smiling to herself, suffused with happiness—

“Hey,” he slurs from the couch. “You have a good night?”

Her smile drains slightly at the sight of him. “Did you mean to fall asleep there?”

He wipes what feels suspiciously like drool from his mouth. “Clearly.” Making it up onto his elbows, dislodging the paperback he fell asleep reading.

“It looks like you were making a nest.”

“What? Oh.” The sheets of paper scattered around, filled with sketches and scribbles. He gathers them up roughly. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“It was alright.”

“Hmm.” There’s a weird, twitching energy about her he thinks he recognizes. “Did something… happen?”

“What? No! I mean, we listened to some pretty fucking pretentious screenplays being read.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, of course—”

“You know we’re both shitty liars, right?”

She heaves a sigh, shoulders slumping at this disarmament. “Alright, fine. I want your advice about something, but I don’t want you to… lose your shit.”

“Right.”

“You promise you’ll just be calm?”

“No,” he says, looking up at her from under beetling brows. “But you should tell me anyway. Avoiding it isn’t going to make it any better when I eventually find out.” 

“You can be _such_ a shithead—”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re not exactly helping your case, pissing me off before you even start.”

“Ugh,” she huffs, dropping into the armchair opposite. “Fine! I think… I think that Jonathan… likes me.”

“Oh, God.” He buries his face in his hands.

“…and I like him.”

He looks at her from between his fingers. “I don’t have to tell you what a terrible idea it is to fuck your producer, right?”

“I knew you’d be like this!” she fires up immediately. “You’re such a hypocrite! How many people from set have I watched _you_ try to fuck—?”

“None of them that held the purse strings!” he snaps back. “On set romances are one thing. When you work in the industry that’s where you meet people. Fine. But producers are different; they – they hold all the cards! You break up with him, it’s not going to be shitty mix tapes and clubs that smell of feet! He could kill your career!”

“Oh, come on, he’s not like that—”

“You don’t know what he’s like! He’s thirty-two and calling the shots at a major studio, despite the fact he can barely make eye contact! There’s got to be some shit there we don’t know. Oh, and he’s too fucking old for you!”

“Seriously?”

“Yes!”

“You’re in love with Ruth! She’s, like, half your age!”

“I’m in—what?! No! And anyway, it’s different!”

“How?”

“Because she’s lived a fucking life! She’s been to college, done her own thing!”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to go to college anymore. Maybe I want to stay in LA and write and—”

“—fuck Jonathan?”

“Oh, my God! Can you _not_—?”

“What? Be a realist? I remember what it’s like to be eighteen!” He sighs heavily. “Okay, let’s – let’s try and unpick this.” He stares at the coffee table. As if he can find the answers under his empty coffee cup, or the inky sketch of a female astronaut, standing on the surface of a barren moon. “You think it’s a… mutual thing?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? It’s awkward, and all—”

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t want details.” He doesn’t want to say it out loud, but if the guy’s as big a dick as some in this town, the damage may already be done. He’s seen careers die over less than a thwarted attraction. “Can you… keep things on the level until we’re done shooting at least?”

She nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, that’s sensible.”

“Great.” He massages his temples, but some things he can’t let lie. “Really? Him? Of all people? You couldn't go for the guy playing Billy?”

“What? What’s wrong with Jonathan?”

“He’s just… such a fucking _nerd_. I mean, remember that time he talked about _Dungeons and Dragons_ for like, half an hour? I wanted to shoot myself.”

She goggles at him. “Like the time Ruth spent twenty minutes trying to convince you to make _GLOW _more Brechtian?”

“Alright, okay.” Maybe she has a point. “Look, this thing with me and Ruth… it’s not what you think. I’m not trying to get with her, you know? We’ve both got too much other shit going on.”

“Right,” she says, entirely unconvinced. She turns his sketch of the astronaut around. The face behind the visor is delicately snub-nosed, and framed by dark curls. “I’m sure she’s not on your mind at all.”


	6. The white knight

“Sam Sylvia?”

He stands, catching the smile of the nurse, and following her out of the waiting room into the clinic. She’s older than him. Taller too; with a no-nonsense chin and graying auburn hair pulled back in an elegant bun.

“I’m probably supposed to introduce myself as Nurse Smith,” she says, as he takes a seat. “But my name is actually Cynthia.” There’s something strange about her accent. Definitely not American, although obviously softened by years in California. Gun to his head and he’d plump for Scottish, but he has a feeling that’s not quite right either. “There’s a few tests we like to run before you go in for the EKG, and then the doctor will come and talk through the results with you,” she continues, flipping through his chart. “You rescheduled early?”

“Uh, yeah. Big work project coming up. Wanted to get in ahead of that.”

“What do you work in?”

“Film making.”

“Ah, like everyone else in this town. Pop your arm up here for me, please.” She busies herself in a white plastic tray. “What kind of films? Or should I not ask?”

“Horror movies, mostly. Although my next one’s a little different...”

“No need to check if you’re okay with the sight of blood, then.” She applies an elastic tourniquet to his arm with practiced ease, tapping at the veins in the crook of his elbow. “Oh, excellent.”

“Really?” he manages, starting to feel a little out of his depth.

“Yes, _really_ great veins.” She catches his eye. “Oh, I’m sorry pet. Did you think I meant your muscles?” 

He cracks a grin in response. “Well, maybe I was hoping you’d noticed.”

She laughs. “I’m sure they’re excellent too. We’ll find out together in a minute. I’m afraid it’s me that has to make the call on whether we shave your chest or not.”

“Wow.” Maybe she’s like this with all the middle-aged heart attack patients, he tells himself. A sort of additional stress test, alongside the needles and sticky pads.

If it wasn’t grotesquely inappropriate, he’d be asking for her number.

“I know. I don’t do designs, I’m afraid.” He realizes she’s filled a vial with his blood already; so distracted by what might be the weirdest flirtation of his life he didn’t even feel it. “So, how do you make good fake blood, then? I’ve been looking for an edge at the Halloween costume party here for years.”

“Oh, uh, corn syrup. And make sure you include some black food coloring.”

“Really? Black?” she says, inflating the pressure cuff of the blood pressure monitor.

“People tend to go for red and it’ll come out too light. And put soap in it if you need to wash it out later. Learned that one the hard way.”

“Interesting. Now, you be quiet for just a few seconds, so we can get these numbers good as can be… That’s _great_…”

* * *

“Ah, Sam,” says the doctor, when he’s ushered back through, half an hour later. “Come in, sit down.”

“Does that mean it’s bad news?”

“What?”

“Asking me to sit down.”

The cardiologist blinks, nonplussed. “No, it just means we’re going to have a conversation and most people feel more comfortable sitting down for that. If you want to stand, by all means, stand.” The man looks back down at his notes, before any additional strangeness can ensue. “Well, we’re heading in the right direction, aren’t we? Your blood pressure and cholesterol are looking much lower, which is great. Now, the EKG…” He unfolds the readout, the spiky, scrawling output of Sam’s heart. “Tell me, have you experienced any cardiac symptoms since we last spoke?”

“Like what?”

“Anything that feels unusual in the way your heart is beating.”

“Uh,” he says, stupidly. He thinks of how it skips when Ruth says his name. Of the fluttering terror he feels when he worries he’s fucking up Justine’s movie; and the heaviness of his chest when he reflects on how little he’s really achieved in his fifty or so years on the planet. “Sometimes?”

“And how would you describe it?”

He not going to get fucking poetic. “I guess it feels like it… beats a little quickly,” he manages, gesturing vaguely at his chest.

The doctor nods. “That’s in line with the EKG. It suggests you have a mild arrhythmia. Probably the result of damage from your heart attack, but it may have been present before then.”

Sam lets out a shaking breath. “Okay. So, what do I do to fix that?”

“Well… you’re already doing it. This kind of damage is permanent. But with the lifestyle changes you’re making it can be well managed.”

There’s a ringing in his ears. A curious tingling in his arms and legs. That _oh fuck_ sensation deep in his gut, like the moment between falling and hitting the ground. “So, I… what?”

“Keep up with the diet and exercise. See if you can wean yourself off the cigarettes completely. Stay off the booze and pills. You’re doing really well, Sam.” The man smiles, as if he hasn’t set in motion a personal apocalypse. “Just keep it up.”

* * *

He lights up a cigarette as soon as he steps outside. He doesn’t know what number it is, and he doesn’t care. He’s going to smoke the whole pack, even if the nicotine makes him sick. And then he’s going to score some blow.

Because what’s the fucking point? Living like a monk, for months, and the reward is a patronizing gold star and instructions to keep up the good work. It’s not good work, he wants to scream. It’s fucking miserable, resisting temptation with no time off for good behavior. Now the goal line stretches off into eternity and he’s done—he’s _done_. He doesn’t _care_ if it kills him—

The Cadillac, screeching into the parking lot at speed, is probably less than two feet away from doing the job for him. “What the _fuck_?” he yells, about to launch into a tirade at the luckless driver.

It’s Debbie.

He actually does a double take as she jumps out from behind the wheel, preemptive hand already raised to quiet the unloading of his rage. “I’m sorry, but you’re _clearly_ fine, and my kid is—”

“Debbie,” he says. “It’s me.”

She blinks, looking at him rather than through him for the first time. “Sam? What the— fuck. Why are _you_ here?”

“Check-up,” he says. “What’s going on? Are you alright?”

“Fine, I’m fine. But—but Randy had a fall and hit his head, and I—I don’t know! I don’t know. Maybe I’m just overreacting, but—”

“Woah, woah! Slow down. Give me your keys.”

“What?”

“Take him in to the ER. I’ll park your car somewhere it’s not going to get fucking impounded.”

She doesn’t hesitate; a mark of how serious this could be. Just thrusts the keys into his outstretched hand and scoops up her son to rush him inside.

* * *

He finds them in the triage room, more easily than he strictly should. Maybe the staff just assume he’s the father. Or, worse, the grandfather. Randy is sleeping in her arms, her fingers tracing erratic circles in his golden curls.

“How did you even… find us?” 

“I asked,” he shrugs, passing back the car keys. “What’d they say?”

“Uh, strong possibility of a concussion. They’ll do some tests.” She meets his eyes at last. “Thank you,” she manages. The words are clearly painful to say.

“It’s fine.” Close to, he’d have to say she looks pretty terrible. Thinner than he remembers, make-up not quite hiding the waxy tinge to her skin. Cigarettes instead of sleep, he suspects. Too many missed meals. “What happened?”

“I was… meant to be meeting with the producers at Tristar today. My secretary was watching him while I was on the ‘phone to Bash. _Supposed_ to be watching him.” She shakes her head, and he knows a moment of sympathy for the secretary, who’s body he suspects will never be found. “I didn’t stop to tell them to cancel the meeting. Should I… feel bad about that?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t,” he says, which gets a creak of something like laughter. “You got their number?”

“What?”

“I’ll go be your secretary. Tell them what happened while you wait with him for the tests.”

“You… don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to.” She’s still looking at him like he’s suggested something distasteful. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

She smooths Randy’s hair for another moment, and then she rolls her eyes and reaches into her purse. “Don’t oversell it,” she says, passing the business card over. 

“Have you met me?” he scoffs, before slouching out to the phones in the lobby.

* * *

He returns with a paper cup. “Got you a coffee. Well, technically a coffee. Love-in-a-canoe coffee.”

She takes it from him. “What… are you talking about?”

“You’ve never heard that before? Fucking close to water.”

This doesn’t raise the laugh he hoped it might. “Sam. Why are you even here? Why are you doing this?”

“Why wouldn’t I do this?” he returns, pulling a face.

“Aren’t you supposed to be some big-shot director now? Don’t you have other places to be?”

_That’s_ a shot across his bows. He recoils like he’s been slapped. “Fine. I can fuck off—”

“I—I didn’t mean… That. That’s not what I…”

“Ah, you did. At least a little bit.”

“I just… I haven’t seen you for weeks! We’ve never exactly been friends! And now you’re, what? My knight in shining armor?”

“I wouldn’t look so deep into it,” he says. “I just happened to be here at the hospital, minding my own business, when, you know, you almost run me over.”

“I did _not_ almost run you over.” She considers this. “There was at _least_ two feet—”

“Six inches.”

She does laugh at that, a dark chuckle that bubbles out from underneath the carapace she’s wearing. “God. Imagine if I’d killed you.”

“Can you maybe not smile like that while you do?”

She laughs again, the chuckle fading into a sigh. “Ruth might actually never speak to me again.”

“Nah. I’m pretty sure she’d forgive you.”

There is a beat of silence. Debbie drowns the awkwardness in a wincing sip of the terrible coffee. “Are you… talking to her much?” she says, apparently to the grainy brown liquid.

“A little. I’m hoping New York doesn’t stick, if only for the sake of my ‘phone bill.”

“I was thinking about going to her opening night,” Debbie confesses.

“Really?”

“I know it’s… probably going to be cringey and earnest, and a waste of time I don’t have right now. But: I should support her.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“You don’t support …supporting her?”

“It’s not that. I just think she’s better than off-off-Broadway surrealist plays, you know? Obviously, she should be the creative director at _Bash Howard TV_—”

“—we’re _not_ calling it that—”

“Well, whatever. My point is, it doesn’t matter what I think. Or what you think. It’s up to Ruth. And I’m not going to be able to keep a lid on things if you put me in the middle of that pretentious theater crowd.”

Debbie considers this. “I mean, it matters a _little_ what I think... I am the network President.”

“And so modest about it too.”

She laughs again, a giggle that teeters on the edge of hysteria. “You know, I haven’t missed this,” she says.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his own mouth curling into a smile. “Me neither.”

* * *

The red light is blinking on his answer machine when he finally returns home. He sighs heavily, but whatever shit is about to hit the fan next he may as well hear.

“Hey, Sam!” says the voice of Ruth. Clearly ringing from a payphone, the noise of the city audible in the background. “Sorry I missed you. Hope you’re out doing something fun. Um. I just wanted to call and say… I don’t know, actually. That things are going well, I guess.”

She sounds happy. He can’t help but smile, even as his chest aches with longing. Well, he hopes it’s the longing. 

“Anyway, I’ll try again another time,” she continues. “Oh! And if you have another meeting in New York, you should come down and see us on Cherry Lane. I mean, if you have time…Okay. Bye-ee…”

He goes into the dark kitchen to pour a glass of water. The violent urge to throw himself headlong into oblivion has faded at least, in the wake of Debbie’s disaster. Everyone’s got their fucking problems.

He takes a sip.

It _would_ be fucking madness to go and see her in New York, wouldn’t it? There’s no way he’s got the time, and he’s spent so much money on flights and phone calls recently anyway. And there’s Justine to think of too. He can’t just blow off being on set, not for this project. Not even for her. 

He makes a noise, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and all flat frustration. Then he puts down the glass and goes to look at shot lists and shooting schedules and other sensible things.


	7. Opening night

“Hey. Is it midnight there already?”

“Yeah, a little after.”

“You don’t have castmates to go out and celebrate with?”

“Well, I think some of them have gone to a bar, but it’s not really a thing for opening night. Besides, I’m the boss! I’m not fraternising, I’ve been making production notes—”

“Jesus Christ, you’re such a nerd.”

“I know, I know. Um, I wanted to say thank you.”

“Oh, really?” he says, bluffing terribly. “What for?”

“My opening night card,” she says, and he can see her face as clearly as if she’s in the room with him. Pressing her lips together, trying to hold in a smile. “And the flowers.”

“Oh, yeah. That wasn’t me. Must’ve been Debbie.”

“Mm, except I recognize the handwriting.”

“Ah, fuck. Well, don’t tell anyone. You know I’ve got a reputation to maintain.” He stretches out on his bed, weariness bone deep. “Thanks for my present, by the way.” The tiny vodka bottle is still sitting on the VCR player across the room. He did intend to drink it at the end of the day in his own tiny, rebellious celebration, but there really hasn’t been time.

“Did it… go okay?” There’s just a hint of stiffness in her voice.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m fucking exhausted after a day, and staring down the barrel of three whole months of this shit. But it was good.”

“I should go… Let you get some rest…”

“Ah, no,” he says, too tired to care about playing it cool. “I mean, I’d like to hear some more about your first day.” In all honesty, he really doesn’t give a fuck about _The Real Inspector Hound_ or whatever mad bullshit it is they’re performing this week. But he’d like to hear some more of her voice.

“Mmm. Are you in bed right now?” She puts on a sultry tone to ask the question. It amuses him as much as it arouses him. 

“Yeah. Is this one of those conversations?”

“_Those_ conversations?”

“What are you wearing and shit?”

“Would you like that?” Keeping up the sexy pretense, but only just.

“Uh,” he says, looking down at the evidence. Boxer shorts and the plain white tee he wore underneath his blue dress shirt, which has done sterling service soaking up today’s fear-sweat from the smell of things. “Only if you go first.”

“Okay,” she says. “Uh, I’m wearing… Um...”

He starts to laugh in the ensuing pause, her imagination clearly struggling for once. “Can I guess?”

“Alright.”

“You’re wearing pajama shorts you’ve had since college and an Iowa State tee shirt.”

“That’s… pretty close, actually.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve established we both suck at this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He sighs. “So, this run is for what, the next two weeks?”

“Yeah. Do you think you’ll get the chance to come out at all? I mean, Debbie’s visiting next week. I thought maybe… well…”

There is a longer, much less amusing pause. “Uh. You know, I really wish that I could—”

“No, it’s—it’s fine. I mean, I totally get that you’re so busy with the shoot.”

He grits his teeth in frustration, fervently wishing they could go back to the cack-handed flirtation of a minute ago. “You’re staying in New York after this run?”

“Yeah. Got a call back for a Shakespeare festival. And Debbie was saying she thinks _GLOW 2_ might be better for a summer launch, anyway...”

“Right. That big summer TV event, when everyone goes indoors to escape the good weather.”

She sighs, but swallows whatever response she has in mind to this piece of sarcasm. He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, wishing he could keep his foot out of his fucking mouth for five minutes. Though in fairness, for once this doesn’t feel like it’s all his fault.

“Well, I will let you get that sleep,” she says, tight and miserable now. “Bye, Sam.”

“Okay. Good night—” he starts, but he’s speaking to the dial tone before he even gets to her name. He takes a pillow and presses it over his face, burying his yell of frustration lest he wakes Justine.

* * *

“I don’t just understand why Rosalie can’t just come out to stay with us. I can sleep on the couch. Or she could stay in a motel.”

“Oh, come on. There’s no friends back in Sacramento you want to catch up with?”

They’re queuing in traffic to get to the airport. The air conditioning in his car is still intermittent and it’s unseasonably warm for February. They’re occupying a lesser circle of Hell, in other words.

“Not really,” she whines, sounding as young as her years for a change.

“Look… you need to spend some time with your mother,” he tries.

Because, if he’s entirely honest, she needs to spend some time away from him. He loves his daughter desperately, deep in his bones; a kind of feeling he didn’t think he was even capable of. But living and working together as they are would be a strain on any relationship, let alone one where both participants tend to come in at _Defcon 3_ levels of emotional defensiveness as standard.

They need a break from one another. And he has plans for this weekend. They involve an empty house and not having to pretend to care about Iran-Contra, the feminist implications of _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun_ or whether McCarthy’s underrated _Blood Meridian _is adaptable for screen – as per the last three family dinners that have featured special guest star Jonathan fucking Weitzman.

It’s not that the guy is unlikeable. He’s clever and funny, in a shy intellectual sort of way. A better match for Justine than Billy. And he’s right about _Blood Meridian._ If he wasn’t their producer, there’s a chance he’d even earn grudging parental approval. But with things as they currently are, Sam is the increasingly awkward third wheel in a tortured love story. And he’s tired of feeling like a literal prophylactic.

“She’s just going to nag me about College applications again.”

“Right.” Shit, he’s forgotten to do that in the last few weeks.

“I told you, I think it’s a better use of my time to stay here and keep writing—”

“Oh, God…”

“What am I going to learn on a film studies course that I’m not learning right now on set?”

“Jesus Christ, are we really having this conversation again? It’s not just about the course. It’s the chance to meet different people, have different experiences. Be somewhere new.”

“Well, why can’t I just go travelling?”

“Just trust me—”

“You told me you fucking hated college—!”

“Yeah, I did, and I’m still telling you to go! What does that tell you? Fuck!” He has to brake sharply to avoid ploughing into the back of the car in front.

“Watch your driving,” she snaps, and he grinds his teeth together so hard he thinks they might crack.

“Look, just, go and make your mother feel like you still give a fuck about her too, okay? Trust me when I say that shit is important. Pretend your life is normal for a week. It’ll stop you turning into some Hollywood asshole.” The shocked silence that ensues suggests he may have gone too far. “Oh, God. I’m saying that as someone who made the mistake of believing the bullshit, alright? You’re not an asshole. Yet.” He risks a glance sideways, at her stony face. “But when your star is rising, people in this town will tell you all sorts of shit. It’s good to have grounding. And that tends to be, you know, the people who knew who you were before you were famous.”

“I’m not _famous_.”

“No, but you might be. What? I’m being honest! If this goes well, everyone’s going to want to meet the next Nora Ephron.”

She shakes her head, twisting the silver rings on her fingers compulsively. “You were actually listening to Jonathan talk about _Silkwood_?”

“Well, you know, sometimes my consciousness passes through as I try and astral project out—”

“We were talking about work!” she says, half-laughing in spite of herself.

“I know, I know.”

He’s smiling too, albeit wryly, and the traffic starts moving again.

* * *

He’s been running for thirty-five minutes. Well, jogging. And alright, at least fifteen minutes have been more about limping, wheezing, and trying not to cry. But operation _let's-not-fucking-die_ continues apace, and given the current stalemate situation he’s in over fully quitting the smokes, he’s decided to open up a new battlefront. This one is called regular cardiovascular exercise, and it might be worse than trying to go full cold turkey on the nicotine.

Maybe he should have just bought that fucking home rowing machine, he thinks. He turns the last corner towards home, debating whether he needs to vomit in a convenient shrubbery, and almost runs smack into Ruth.

“What—fuck—” He drags off his Walkman headphones – he’s found it preferable to drown out the rattle of his fucked-up lungs by blasting Nina Simone – and tries to get his gasping breath under control enough to say something more coherent.

“Hi,” she says, with a self-conscious little wave. Clearly amused at the sight of him in his ridiculous workout gear, which is fair. He’s even wearing a fucking sweatband.

“Well, this… is… embarrassing.” he manages. They’ve been playing ‘phone-tag since their respective opening nights, he suspects not entirely accidentally. He has the air for maybe half a sentence, he decides. “What are you doing here?”

Of course, it’s the _wrong_ sentence, spinning her off into defensiveness. “I’m sorry, I tried to call. I just thought this might be a good time to come and collect that Thermos...”

His heart sinks a little at that. “I’m— I’m not mad,” he explains. “Just surprised. I just dropped Justine off at the airport.” He digs in the pocket of his shorts for his key. “Do you want to come in, or…?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, I’ll come in.”

There’s no escaping the awkwardness, apparently. Maybe because last time she was here, Rosalie turned up. Or perhaps there’s still a trace of their missed connection moment hanging in the air. He tries not to dwell on that parallel universe, where circumstances didn’t contrive to snatch away their moment of joy at the first fucking opportunity. But he can feel the edge of it now, he thinks, as she follows him through the door. 

“Do you have some time, or are you—?”

“I’ve got some time. I was hoping that… you might too. You know, before the wedding.” 

He frowns at the non-sequitur. “The wedding?”

“Yeah.”

“What fucking wedding?”

Now she looks confused. “Yolanda and Arthie? I’m… pretty sure they said you were getting an invitation…”

“Aw, fuck. Was _that_ what that was about? I knew there was a message, but it came in when we were on location and I didn’t… didn’t…” He trails off, not sure if he should even mention life on set, and another part of his brain takes over. “So, did they find a rogue priest or what?”

“It’s a protest wedding,” she explains. “To raise awareness for gay rights. I think there are other couples too.” 

“Oh, I get it. Yeah, I’ll come.”

“Really?” She sounds surprised at his enthusiasm.

“Yeah! I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve stuck it to The Man, but I know how that shit goes. Good call on the running shoes,” he adds, pointing to her sneakers. 

“Um,” she says, now looking slightly panicky. “Well, that’s—I mean, it’s great that you can come.”

“Yeah,” he returns, for want of something, anything better to say. And now they’re staring at one another again, at a loss for words. He’s not sure he’s missed this exactly; this dancing on the edge feeling. He wants to take her hand or take her in his arms. To do _something_. But, of course, he’s sweaty and unprepared; meeting her again on the back of an argument rather than a happy conversation. Their timing, as always, is fucking chronic.

“Look. I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you in New York,” he tries. “I wanted to. I really did. But scheduling has been a fucking nightmare and—”

“No, I’m sorry I made it into such a big deal,” she says. “I know how important what you’re doing right now is, and I—” She stops, as he reaches for her gesticulating hand.

“Ruth, how about we try this?” he says. “Hi. How long are you in town for?”

She sighs. “Just a – a day. I met with Debbie and Cherry yesterday, and I need to be on the red-eye tonight—”

“Okay, alright,” he says. “So, why don’t we take the day? You know, we can just hang out here for a while. Go to a gay protest wedding, make sure you don’t get arrested. Maybe we can rob a fucking bank together later on.” She laughs at that, to his relief. “I mean, that sounds about right. Right?”

“Right,” she laughs. “Sam?”

His mouth goes dry at the way she says his name. “What?” It comes out as almost a whisper.

She reaches up and pulls the ridiculous sweatband off his head. “Sorry,” she says, mischief returning to play around her mouth. “But I can’t take you seriously with that thing on.”

“Oh.”

He has a feeling he knows what’s going to come next; she’s smiling up at him with that almost hungry look, her hand still in his. Still, something swoops in his stomach when she closes her eyes and leans up to kiss him. And it’s always so _easy_. Like this is the one solid state of the universe. The ways she touches his face; the softness of her lips and how she pushes her tongue into his mouth. It all just seems to _fit_, like so little else in his life ever has.

“Oh, God, I missed you,” she says, against his mouth. “Missed this.”

“Me too.” He pulls them apart for a second. That stupid giddy happiness is already pasted across both of their grinning faces, and he loses himself to her mouth again, unable to resist. “I need to take a shower,” he says, eventually. Struggling to get words out between kisses.

“Mm-hm.” Not letting him go, not stopping.

“You wanna… come with?”

That offer does give her pause, drawing back to meet his anxious gaze. Perhaps it was too much—

“Yes,” she says.

And maybe their timing isn’t so bad after all, he thinks, as he takes her by the hand to his room. He’s got a miraculously empty house for this moment, after all. For undressing with almost indecent haste and pulling her under the spray with him. For pressing her body against the cool tiles and tracing the beads of water that run down her throat with his thumb. His tongue. She takes him in hand in the end, and guides him between her legs. He fucks her slow and hard. Like he’s wanted to for such a long time. Like he thinks she wants him, too.

Afterwards he takes her into his bed. He can’t quite bear to put layers of clothing between them again so soon. He wants the weight of her, wants the warmth of her. Wants her. And it’s here too, when she’s lying in his arms. That sense of something that just fucking fits. They kiss, and they kiss; until somehow he’s hard again and it's slippery between her thighs. She rolls him over, her hands pressing into his against the sheets as she straddles him; rocking against him. Fast and urgent now, the clock on their time together almost run down.

I’ll come to New York, he wants to say. I’ll follow you anywhere. Please don’t fucking go. I love you. I love you.

He keeps his mouth closed on all of it.


	8. Just the job

“So… was it what you expected?”

They’re sitting on a bench outside the terminal, two plastic spoons and a carton of chocolate ice cream to share between them, before she boards her flight.

“I guess it was more protest than I anticipated,” she says, after some thought. “A lot more speeches. They seem happy, though. Isn’t that the most important thing?”

“Eh, I guess.” He digs his spoon into the carton, fishing for brownie pieces. “You know, I almost cut that stupid ballet scene for time…”

“Really? You could have stood in the way of true love!”

“Well. Wouldn’t be the first time.” He takes another spoonful. “So, am I eating all of this by myself, or what?”

“What’s it like?”

He pinches his face behind his glasses. “It’s... fucking chocolate ice cream, Ruth—”

“Not the – I know what the _ice cream_ is,” she says, rolling her eyes at his idiocy. “I meant… being married.”

“Oh. Jesus.”

“Does it just… change everything? Make things more real somehow?”

“I think that depends on who you talk to,” he says, trying to put enough of a bite of warning into his voice that she’ll stop talking now, without actually yelling.

“I know, but—” She looks up at him and the implication is clear. Right now, she’s talking to him.

He sighs heavily. “It’s not something I like to revisit.”

“Okay, fine. I rescind the question.” She takes her spoon and carves out the biggest chunk of chocolate chip she can find, studiously ignoring him. He has no idea where she’s going with this line of questioning. With any other woman it would feel like a trap, but Ruth’s never been one for this kind of game—

“Drowning,” he hears himself say. “My marriage felt like drowning.” 

She swallows carefully. “Really?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t breathe. Every day was just the sinking realization that I’d done the wrong thing, and the absolute terror that she was going to work it out too and leave me. I felt like I was out of my fucking mind.”

She frowns. “Because you wanted to be able to leave her first? Or—”

“No! Jesus! I just wanted to be a different person. One that could, you know, actually love her instead of making her cry all the time.”

She digests this, something clearly not sitting easily. “I just…”

“What?”

“I can’t quite… I mean… Why did you ask her to marry you in the first place if you didn’t love her?”

“Oh, Christ. Cos she was beautiful, Ruth. And for some reason she was interested in me. Despite the fact I was forty-two and all fucked up. Finding grey hairs in the mirror, sweaty and paranoid with all the blow. I thought fate was handing me a fucking fairy tale.”

He has no idea why he’s telling her all this. Except perhaps that she’s Ruth, and she asked; and if there is anyone in the world that can hear all this and still speak to him afterwards it’s probably her. 

She shakes her head, biting her lip, almost in frustration. “_Why_?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why does everyone seem to think there’s someone else out there who can just… magically fix everything for them?”

“Well, probably because it’s easier than facing the reality that you have to take responsibility for your own fucking problems. Did you have a point about that, Ruth?”

She nods, conceding that he might, with regard to her current situation. “I… I got offered a part in that Shakespeare tour,” she confesses. “Three months. Debbie and Cherry are going to try and convince Carmen to come back to run GLOW. With a director from the studio.”

“Right,” he says carefully, as if his stomach hasn’t dropped unpleasantly. He’s not at all sure why she’s saved this revelation for now. “Is that… really what you want?”

It’s her turn to sigh. “I don’t know. Part of me thinks I need to have something that’s my own thing. I don’t want to resent everyone else’s success anymore; I need something that’s just… mine.” She stirs her spoon in the now almost liquid ice cream. “And another part of me is scared that I’m running away from the things I really want. Because once I have them…”

“…they might not be what you actually want anymore?”

“Right.” She makes a wincing, almost apologetic face. “I don’t want to feel like I’m drowning.”

“Yeah. I get it.” He turns his face up to the sky. Such stars that can be seen in the sodium haze of the evening are easier to look at right now than her face. “You got a schedule for the tour yet?”

“Not yet. Why?”

“So I can figure out when I can come and see you doing soliloquies and fucking sonnets. I mean, if you want that.”

He risks looking at her again. Her anxious expression becoming, by degrees, a slightly shaky smile. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

She puts a hand to his face and kisses him. “You promise you won’t be mean?”

“No,” he says, nose to nose. “But I’ll be there.”

There is nothing more to say for a while, only a long, long kiss goodbye. Until the last bus arrives with an ominous hiss of hydraulics; the clatter of suitcases their wake-up call that she needs to go inside.

“Thanks for inviting me for ice cream.” 

“Thanks for eating more than half.”

“I did _not_—”

“—saving my life, one calorie at a time—”

“I’m going now, Sam.”

“I know, I know.”

One last kiss, pressed hard against her lips, and then he has to let her go again. Something like hope in her eyes, excitement maybe, as she turns to walk away. He watches her out of sight, chin in hand, and wishes he felt the same.

* * *

It has not been a good day. 

“Look,” he says. And he can hear the ragged edge of his temper, tight in his voice. “I don’t give a fuck how it got broken. It just needs to get fucking fixed. Alright? We’ve got tomorrow to get this, or we don’t get it at all.”

“It’s not that simple—”

“I don’t fucking care!” he snaps. “This is your problem that you are now making all of our problem. Go fix it.”

The camera operator swallows, eye to eye with him, and for a moment Sam thinks he might snap back. Maybe he almost _hopes _that he does. The anger swirling his gut demands an outlet, and he’s not above unloading it all on this kid—

The younger man blinks. “Yes, Mr Sylvia,” he says.

“Great. Thank you.” Sam turns away, shaking his head. Fingers finding the packet of cigarettes in his top pocket. It’s not been a good day for that, either, but it’s probably better he smokes another one than starts yelling. “Alright!” he announces to the waiting crew, as he lights up. “Let’s reset—”

“Sam?”

Jonathan, sweating in his terrible brown suit, is advancing across the set.

“Jesus Christ, what now?”

“Nicky wants to talk to you.”

“I don’t have fucking time—!”

“Well, you need to make the time for this.”

And that’s the thing about Jonathan, the interesting thing. He doesn’t shout and scream. He’s always calm. Serious. Seeming on the back foot even, when in reality he holds most of the cards. Sam’s first instinct, the one really screaming at him right now, is to explode. He’s the director. This is his space, and no one here gets to tell him what to do. Jonathan’s mere _presence_, hands on hips, looking at the floor rather than Sam, is in and of itself disrespectful.

He draws in a lungful of smoke, buying time. Because there’s something in the way Jonathan holds his ground, deferential and defiant at the same time, that reminds him of someone else. Ruth. Telling him something he doesn’t want to hear, or something he hasn’t really thought through, or something he hasn’t even considered. If it was her, standing in front of him, what would he say?

“What’s the fucking problem now?”

“He found out Laurel is on a higher day rate and wants to re-negotiate his contract—”

“Aw, c’mon! That’s a producer issue—”

“He says he’ll only speak to you. Won’t come out of his trailer till you do.”

“Oh, Christ…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, I’m going to tell him Laurel’s worth double what he is. She’s doing twice as much fucking _work_—”

“Sam.”

“I know, I know.” He takes another deep drag on his cigarette, hand shaking slightly with compressed rage and the nicotine rush. “Fine. It’s fine. Todd, can you handle the reset?”

The DP nods. “We’ve got this, Sam.”

“Great.” He gives Jonathan a withering look. “Glad to know someone has. I guess I’ll go do _your_ job now…” 

He’s still shaking slightly when he gets to Nicky’s trailer. “Hey!” he yells, knocking on the door. “What’s this about your day rate?”

The young man opens the door. Disarmingly handsome, and a damn sight more relaxed than Sam. “Look, I’m sorry I had to—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m here. Like you wanted. So? Talk to me.”

“I need to be paid more. _Growing Pains_ is a bigger deal than _Family Times. _I should be getting at least what Laurel is. If not more.”

Sam finishes his cigarette. “I dunno,” he says, grinding the stub into the concrete with his shoe. “She does have the bigger part...”

“Yes, maybe in terms of lines,” Nick agrees, slick enough to wheedle rather than to rage. “But in terms of box office draw, it’s going to be my face on the posters that brings in the audiences.”

It’s a face that Sam could, quite cheerfully, grind into the lot like his cigarette in this particular moment. But, annoyingly, the arrogant dick has a point. “I hear you,” he says. Feeling like a fucking traitor for saying it, but he’s been around this block enough times before to know the score. “Look, I can speak to finance…”

About how much it costs to get your fucking legs broken, whispers his secret soul. Twenty years ago, he would have known a guy who knew a guy who could do that. But the world has moved on, at least in that regard.

“Thank you,” says Nicky.

“No problem. Now, can you get on with your fucking job, so I can get on with mine?”

“Yes, Sam. Of course.”

“Fucking great.”

He’s still breathing hard as he walks back towards set; stomach churning with rage. He reaches for another cigarette to try and settle his goddamn nerves, and a tendril of pain fires down his arm, earthing itself in the fingers of his left hand.

Oh, he thinks.

He’s panting now. Dripping with sweat, heart laboring in his chest.

Oh, fuck.

* * *

“You know, most people don’t turn up in a taxi when they’re having heart attack symptoms.”

He looks up from his personal pit of misery, into the no nonsense expression of nurse Cynthia. “I didn’t want the drama of an ambulance,” he says thickly. 

“Is that so?” She brandishes the blood pressure cuff. “Cheer up. I’ve come to measure those muscles again.”

He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. Pointless to pretend that he hasn’t been crying, but he’s going to try anyway. “Sure.”

She takes the reading and passes him a clean tissue from her pocket. “Blow,” she instructs, with such a school-teacher harmonic he’s doing what he’s told before he’s even had time to even question the impulse. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

He shrugs. “What’s there to say?” And then he thinks about it some more, and there _is_ one thing that really rankles; one last confession he needs to make. “You know, I even started jogging? That was… hours of fucking misery for no good fucking reason.”

She compresses a smile. “You know can’t just cancel out the bad stuff by doing extra good, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Last time you were here you said there was a big work project coming up…”

“Yeah. So?”

“So, your blood pressure was beautiful then. Today it’s sky high.”

“Fuck.”

“Look, I don’t know what it’s like on a Hollywood set, but I imagine it’s stressful. So, maybe you’re smoking a wee bit more, to balance that out, hmm? Popping out for drinks after work with the fellas? Greasing the wheels, or whatever it is you have to do.”

He gives her a suspicious look for this piece of Sherlockian deduction. “Good guess.”

“I don’t have to guess. I can see from the elevated liver function on your blood test you’re drinking more than you should be, and you came in stinking like an ashtray. Diet and exercise alone isn’t going to cut it, pet. Not if you don’t want another heart attack.”

“So, this was—?"

“I’m not supposed to tell you. Just the nurse, after all,” she says, loudly. Her scornful eye roll tells her real feelings on the issue. She leans closer, conspiratorial. “But I can’t see what on Earth is gained from you crying in here, thinking you’re at death’s door, while they all drink their coffee between rounds. You had a panic attack. Very scary, I know. But they don’t kill you.”

He lets out a shaking sigh. Mostly relief, tinged with a bit of shame. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve been reading EKG results for longer than most of those doctors have been alive. You’re not dying yet.” She sniffs. “But you will be, if you keep slipping like this. And you’re one of the patients I actually like, so I want to avoid that, if that’s okay with you.”

He nods. “I want to. I want to change. It’s just… hard.” 

“I know,” she says. And his gut reaction to a statement like that is usually cynicism; how the fuck _can_ she know? But there’s something in the way she says it that makes him believe she really does. “Do you have anyone that’s helping you with all of this?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want anyone else to fucking know about it.”

“Ach, spoken like a true man,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Well, there are other people you can talk to. The hospital has Twelve Steps meetings—”

“I’m not a fucking alcoholic.”

“Oh, so you can just say no when you go to that bar after work, can you?”

“Yeah! You know, I just… I just have the one drink now, rather than the four I used to.” He stops, hearing how ridiculous he sounds, maybe for the first time. “Fuck.” 

“It’s something to think about, that’s all,” she says. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk about these things with a stranger than it is with a friend.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

She nods. “Well, I’m going to make a nice cup of tea. I’ll bring you one too.”

“Ah, I’m not really a tea person—”

“That’s because Americans don’t know how to make it properly. Trust me. Nothing better than a cup of tea for settling your nerves. You know, I realized I wanted to be a nurse the night they bombed the Vickers Armstrong yard, back in Newcastle. Great uniforms, chance to travel. And do you know what they gave to everyone that walked out of that?” 

“I’m going to have to go with a cup of tea."

“_And_ a nice biscuit. That’s a cookie, to you.”

“Jesus,” he laughs. 

“I know. I was shocked too. Sugar was on the ration.”

He laughs again, nodding at the joke. “Different fucking world."

"Yes, it was a bit."

"Look... thank you," he manages. Those words are always awkward for him. "For... for all this”

“It’s just my job, pet,” she returns. “To help people get better. Any way I can.”


	9. Hotel Transylvania

“Okay… uh, Philadelphia? How does that one look?”

“Mm, the shows are being staged in a high school theater. _Might_ be a weird one to come and see.”

“Yeah, definitely weird.” He sighs, looking at the circled dates on the tour flier. There are depressingly few enough he can make around shooting commitments as it is. “How about the Lexington performances, then? Week after?”

“Yeah, sure! That could… that could work…”

“But?”

“But what?”

“I dunno Ruth, but I can hear there’s some fucking problem.” He switches the receiver to his other ear. 

“No! No problem! It’s just – just that it’s Mary-Lynne’s birthday that weekend, so I can’t exactly kick her out of the motel room.”

He rubs his eyes, under his glasses. Because of course, he’s got one foot in the grave and he’s _still_ having to factor things like roommates into his fucking dating life. If they’re even calling it that. Quite what is going on between them is an adult conversation they’ve yet to attempt. “Well, I’ll book a hotel room.”

“You’re already paying for flights! I feel bad—”

“It’s fine. I’m not saving up for a long retirement.”

“Sam—”

“Ruth, do you want me to fucking come or not?”

“Yes!” she returns. “I want to see you.” 

“Then I will be at the…” He squints. “…the Transylvanian University theater? Is that for real?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus Christ. Well, I’ll be there. March Sixteenth. Dracula notwithstanding.”

“I’ll get you a front row seat.”

“Oh, God...”

“It’ll be Hamlet.”

He offers a silent scream to the ceiling. “Can’t wait,” he lies, through gritted teeth.

“Me neither,” she returns, cheerfully oblivious. “So, did I tell you Sheila came out to do one of the workshops in New York…?”

* * *

There are orange plastic chairs, dragged roughly in a circle, and the smell of burnt coffee. Something almost ritual about that, he thinks. A summoning of hopeless and helpless into this community center room. An Alcoholics Anonymous meeting for the next hour but break the circle and it turns into a ballet class, a Pilates lesson, a chess club. One of those strange public spaces that belongs to everyone and no one; a weird air of vague neglect bought forcibly into conjunction with industrial floor polish.

Maybe thirty or so other people have already arrived. Some are sitting in small groups and talking quietly among themselves; others stand alone. And Cynthia is watching him from across the room, next to the coffee pot. He gives her a nod, not really sure if he’s supposed to acknowledge he knows her outside of this room or not. She merely smiles in response, inclining her head to give him permission to join her.

“Good to see you here,” she says.

“Eh,” he says, pouring his own cup of crappy coffee. “Is it?”

“Mm-hm. Is this your first one?”

“Actually, no. I think this is the fifth or sixth meeting I’ve gone to. My daughter thinks I’ve started dating someone with a really weird curfew…” He considers this. “Uh, a police curfew, I meant. Not, like, a parental one. Fuck.”

Cynthia merely grins at his foot in mouth syndrome. “Are you finding it helpful?”

“I dunno.” He hates sharing, hates the fucking prayer-circle bullshit, and he hates listening to other people’s sad stories. On the surface then, maybe not. But he’s here. “I keep coming back,” he says. “I guess that means… something.”

“I think so too.”

They find two seats together, in the plastic orange circle of the damned.

* * *

Hamlet stands alone. Caught in the beam of a single spot, roiling smoke in the air behind him. “The dread of something after death,” he whispers. “That undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bare those ills we have...”

(_“Hi,” he says. “My name is Sam. And… I’m an alcoholic.” That part still sits awkwardly on his tongue._

_“Hello, Sam,” they say. He used to find the chorus of voices creepy. Less so, now. _

_“I, uh. I’m here because I want to make a positive change in my life. I had a heart attack. I don’t want to have another one… I don’t want to die—") _

Someone opens a bag of candy, several seats to his left. That extended trying-to-be-quiet-about-it rustling noise, more disruptive than if they just ripped into the fucking thing. He’s almost grateful. The mundanity of the moment snaps him out of the painful reverie. He swallows the lump in his throat and tries to pull himself together, lest someone mistake the tears in his eyes for a love of historical melodrama.

It’s not, truth be told, a particularly good Hamlet. The stripped back set, necessity of such a low-budget touring production, might have been artsy in the right hands. Here, it just looks underdone. Half the audience are stupefied schoolkids, presumably attending under duress. Polonius is struggling with his lines and Ophelia looks stunning in her figure-hugging nightdress, he’ll cheerfully admit, but she can’t fucking act.

And Ruth is—

Ruth is—

Well, Ruth is _there_. A functional Reynaldo. An imperious Player Queen, so po-faced it almost verges on farcical. A serving wench, a wordless courtier. Until they’re almost at the end, thank God, and she shuffles on stage as the sexton.

And she’s _hilarious_. Juggling skulls and singing, as the audience howls with laughter. All the manic clown energy she bought to the villainous Zoya, waking up a sleeping grandma in the front row. It’s not subtle. It’s electric. And the terrible truth of it all, he realizes, is that she’s a _brilliant_ character actress. A comedian. She wants to play Iago, but she’s born to be a Puck.

He goes to find her backstage when things have reached their grisly conclusion. Endures the awkward round of introductions to first-tour-out kids, younger than Justine, who couldn’t give less of a fuck about meeting Ruth’s friend. The older cast are, if anything, worse. They’re petty and bitter; dead-behind-the-eyes in a way that’s too close for comfort and gives him the creeps. It’s a relief to escape to the hotel bar, which is _really_ saying something for an alcoholic in fragile recovery.

He slips away for a piss. Washing his hands and smoothing his hair down in the mirror, trying to figure out how he can tell Ruth he’s not drinking without actually admitting to her that he’s not drinking.

When he returns, she’s ordered them both a Scotch anyway. Just the smell of it is like Christmas. Just the _smell_.

“So,” she says, taking a wincing sip of her own drink. “What did you think?”

“I liked the comedy gravedigger best,” he says. In his pocket is a token, shaped like a casino chip, given to him at the last meeting. Thirty days. He touches a finger to it.

She’s wrinkling her nose at the unexpected compliment. “Really?”

“Yeah. You were fucking hilarious. And the juggling was pretty impressive.”

“I mean, there’s not a lot of other light relief in Hamlet…”

“True.”

She takes another sip of her scotch. “You didn’t think Michael was good in the church scene?”

“The guy that played the stepdad?”

She looks slightly pained at his phrasing. “Claudius, yes.”

He shrugs. “I mean…” He can’t even remember the scene she’s talking about. “Well, I’m not exactly a Shakespeare guy, Ruth...” he demurs.

“Right,” she says, nodding to the tabletop. “Well, I’m glad you liked my… juggling.”

“C’mon,” he tries, sensing the wheels are about to come off, and not a clue what he can do to prevent it. “Don’t be like that.”

Whatever the right thing to say was, it wasn’t that. She looks up at him sharply. “Like what?”

“I said you were the best thing in the show—”

“For juggling props!”

“Well, what the fuck did you want me to say?”

“I don’t know! The truth, maybe?”

“And what the fuck is that, Ruth?”

She holds his stare for a moment, then looks away again, shaking her head. When she speaks it’s to their glasses on the sticky bar table. “You don’t think it was very good.”

He sighs. Closing his eyes briefly, despairing. But there’s no way out of this. “You’re right,” he says. “I don’t. I think it was… amateurish. I mean, I’ve seen fucking marionettes less wooden than Ophelia, and I felt embarrassed for the guy playing Polonius. Well, playing is a bit strong for someone basically repeating lines given to him by the prompt—”

She scoffs. “Wow.” 

“Oh, come on,” he sneers in return. “You asked for the truth. Just because you don’t want to hear it doesn’t mean—”

Her sob cuts him off mid-rant. It’s not a soft, theatrical one. It’s a full-blown bubbling up of misery and pain that _erupts_ out of her. Her shoulders are shaking, hot tears suddenly running down her cheeks. His heart sinks sickly she looks up at him from the slopes of her personal hell. “I know, Sam,” she chokes out. “I know! I’ve been… fucking miserable for weeks, not wanting you to see it. Because I know it’s terrible!”

He is suddenly very aware of the complete silence in the rest of the bar. It’s not the first time he’s been the centre of attention for pushing someone to the point of hysterical tears, but it’s not something that gets easier on repeat. “Ruth?”

“And… and… the director won’t listen to me! I mean why should he? I’m just a fucking… comedy actress. The light relief.” She tries to get her tears under control, breathing hard, but it doesn’t work. Something terrible and toxic leaking out of her. “You know, they only cast me because they thought people would know me from GLOW? For—for _Zoya_. For bad accents and—and _slapstick_. I’m a joke! A great big joke! That’s all I… that’s all…”

“Ruth,” he says again. “You’re not a joke. Alright? Not to me.” He’s not sure she can hear him. “Look, if we do this here, I’m probably going to get arrested. Will you come upstairs and… just come upstairs and talk to me? Please?” 

She can’t get enough breath together to say yes but manages a nod between hiccoughing sobs.

He’s surprised security doesn’t stop them, as they leave the bar and cross the lobby; wait for a lift. Presumably they think this is some domestic drama, more than their jobsworth to get involved in. Which is depressing as fuck. Ruth is still crying quietly, and he’s scared to even touch her as he lets them inside the horrible room. The décor is red velvet, going pink with age. It gives him the unpleasant feeling they’re stepping inside the chamber of a heart.

She takes a seat on one of the two double beds, burying her face in her hands. He bites his lip and frets, and decides his best option is probably just getting her some fucking tissues.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, taking the proffered paper and wiping her eyes, fairly pointlessly. “I know I’m being ridiculous. I’m just… I’m so tired of failing.”

“Ruth, I don’t know what yardstick you’re using to measure all this failure. But that’s not who you are to me.”

“What do you mean? I—”

“I mean, from the very first day I met you, you’ve always been pushing for more. You’re fucking… relentless. It’s _annoying_. But you never stop to see all the things you do that are incredible. I don’t think you even notice them.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sam, you told me Mary-Lynne was more wooden than a marionette, and I _still_ can’t get the lead role in a crappy Shakespeare tour over her!”

“Because she fills out the nightdress! C’mon, Ruth! We both know that’s a career with ten years in it, tops, before the next hot piece comes along to fill the same bodice. Why do you suddenly want that?”

“I _don’t_ want that—”

“So then why do you care? You know, half that audience was asleep tonight until you came on stage. I think a woman in the third row actually peed herself laughing. You are… funny. And smart. And great at physical comedy. So, you’re not Grace Kelly! Who cares when you could be Peter fucking Sellers instead?”

“Only you and Debbie think that.”

“What the fuck? How can you…? That’s not true. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, Debbie runs a fucking TV network now. That’s exactly the kind of person you want to think you’re talented.”

“I can’t just rely on Debbie giving me a job because she feels sorry for me!”

“Oh, come on. She doesn’t feel sorry for you, Ruth! Christ, you kicked a hole in her life, and she still invited you back inside. She _needs_ you. I mean, what more do you fucking want?”

“I—” She opens and closes her mouth, but the words aren’t coming. “I don’t think that—”

“Well, I do. Cos I know what it’s like, working with you. And I miss it too.”

She swipes at more tears, leaking unbidden onto her face. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “Those weeks in Vegas were like something from another life. I told you that when we were there.”

“I’m—I’m sorry—”

“I know.”

“Everything’s just such a fucking _mess_.”

“Eh,” he says, putting his head on one side. “I mean, is it really?”

“What do you mean? I’ve told Debbie I don’t want to work on her network and signed up for three months of this stupid tour!”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. But no one’s fucking _died_, Ruth.” At least, not yet. He licks his lips. “Just, tell your director to go fuck himself, and then ring Debbie to say you’ll be in her office on Monday to pitch the next prime time show for _Bash Howard TV__—_”

“They’re… _not_ calling it that.”

“Well, whatever the fuck the name is. C’mon, Ruth! I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“She says no, and—”

“And you’ll just end up back where you are right now.”

There’s more loaded into that statement then he thought, when he first opened his mouth. After all, _he’s_ here now. Standing in front of her. A man bankrupting himself on long distance phone calls and flights to nowhere towns and shitty pink velvet hotel rooms. Because some of the happiest memories he has are bickering pointlessly with this neurotic, increasingly self-preoccupied but nonetheless irritatingly talented, nerd.

She presses her lips together. “You always make it sound so easy.”

“It’s the one benefit of age. Things usually just aren’t that complicated. People don’t have the energy. They’re too busy thinking about themselves.”

Silence balloons; filled with the gurgle of ancient plumbing and distant footsteps in the corridor outside. “Like me,” she says eventually. 

“That’s not what I—”

“I know. It’s true though. I mean, you’ve come all this way to see me and I was so wrapped up in… God, the _worst_ Shakespeare I’ve been in since high school… I haven’t even said thank you.”

“Well, you know,” he says, coming to sit next to her on the bed. “It’s not too late.”

She lets her head drop onto his shoulder; he curls his fingers around her hand on her knee. “Hi,” she says. “Thanks for coming all the way out to Transylvania to see me.”

“It’s fine.” He risks a kiss to the top of her head. “You know, I hunt vampires in my spare time. So it wasn’t really out of my way.”

She shakes with a suppressed laugh. “Are you expecting to meet a monster here tonight?”

“In this place? Sure. I mean, crushed velvet wallpaper. That has to be the sign of a deranged mind, right?” This time she can’t hold in the chuckle, laughing into his bicep. “Where are we going with this?” he says in her ear.

“I don’t know,” she replies. They’ve fallen down the gravity well again, so close her nose traces his face when she looks up at him. “It’s kinda fun though. Right?”

“Yeah, kinda,” he agrees. Her hand has found the back of his neck and he can’t stop himself from kissing her anymore. She tastes of scotch and salt. He wonders vaguely if that’s somehow cheating on the Twelve Steps, until she reaches inside his shirt, and that’s the end to coherent thought for a while.

* * *

“Okay, alright,” he says. Lying unselfconsciously naked next to her on the bed, too hot with the malfunctioning air conditioning to wrap themselves in sheets. “Um, a cop. A detective. Kind of jaded. He’s lost too many people, you know? And he fucks something up and they punish him by making him take on this new partner. A woman. And she’s all fucking… by-the-book and earnest—”

“And they solve crimes together and fall in love?” she teases.

“Yeah. We’re making this for mainstream appeal. What’s so wrong with that?”

“You mean, apart from the fact that _we_ could play the leads? It’s been done, Sam! It’s practically a cliché.” 

“Fine,” he huffs. “Fine. Your turn.”

“Umm. Well, you know, I always liked your Western idea…”

“Really?”

“Yeah! A father – daughter story felt like something a little different.”

“Huh.”

“We could… adapt your screenplay into a TV series?”

“Ah, I don’t think that’d work. And I fucking hate TV Westerns. You can’t shoot people and not see any blood… Hey. Where are you going?”

She’s rolled over, away from him, sitting up on the other side of the bed. “I have to pee,” she says, amused at his neediness. “Keep talking.”

“Jesus. Alright. Uh, I kind of want to go back to horror. I mean, Debbie’s looking to break a new audience over there, right? Move away from the twinset and pearls, goes to church every Sunday brigade?” 

“I think so.”

“Right, so… something _Twilight Zone _ish. Goes out late night, for the freaks and weirdos.” He’s grinning to himself, indulging the fantasy for a moment of what it might look like. Gothic titles over black and white footage: _Sam Sylvia’s Twisted Tales From Beyond the Veil_. Yeah.

“You’ve stopped talking,” she calls, over the sound of the flush.

“I was thinking,” he says. It’s suddenly much harder to do, when he looks up to find her without a stitch of clothing, framed in the bathroom door. “Uh…” He lies back and closes his eyes, trying to salvage the train of thought. “Nope. It’s gone.”

He opens them to find her picking something up from the floor, always risky in a hotel like this.

“Did you take this from the _Fan Tan_?” she says, sounding disbelieving.

“Take what?” 

She stands, showing him the sobriety token in her hand. Clearly fallen out of his pocket during the hasty removal of his jeans. His brain cells seem to have fused together, and he’s still open mouthed and stupefied as she turns the disc over, reading the text etched into the plastic. 

Blue eyes find brown. “You’re… getting sober?”

There’s little point in lying about it at this juncture. “Gotten. Thirty-three days. No drink, no drugs… and no fucking cigarettes.” The latter is still far and away his biggest challenge.

“Sam! Why didn’t you _tell_ me? My, God! I ordered you a scotch!”

“I know, I know.” He reaches out his hand, hoping to pull her back into the bed with him. “It’s fine. You didn’t know.”

“But why wouldn’t you…? You could have mentioned it on the ‘phone!” To his relief she returns, tucking into his side as he puts his arm around her, head on his chest.

“Well, it’s a weird thing to just come out and say.” He palms the token, putting it down on the bedside table next to his glasses. “And, you know, it’s one day at a time.”

“So, you… go to meetings?” she asks, frowning curious.

“Yeah. Almost every fucking day.”

“What does Justine think?”

“Uh, that I’m trying to clandestinely date someone I don’t want her to find out about…”

“She doesn’t _know_?”

“No. And… I don’t want her to, alright? You’re the only person that knows. I mean, outside of… other alcoholics.”

She makes a noise of disbelief. “Wow. I just… never expected this of you. I thought you loved being a—a blackjack and coke kind of guy.”

“It got old,” he says carefully.

“Well… I’m proud of you.”

“Ah, c’mon. I—” He catches her eye, and his stomach lurches at her smile, shutting him up. He could stand a little more of that, he thinks, before she kisses him again. Yeah. He could stand a little more. 


	10. Fucking idiot

He crunches the parking brake and sits, for just a goddamn moment, in the driver’s seat of his car. Watching dawn light paint the steps at the front of his house pink, and willing himself to move. He’s been awake for almost thirty-six hours, working, and he’s due back on set in another six. He _has_ to get some sleep. There’s only so much coffee can do against this kind of tired.

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. Surprised to find what was bristling stubble is softening into a beard under his fingers already. He can’t actually remember when he last found time for a shave. Put it on the list, he thinks. Sleep, then a shave. Maybe he’ll get really wild and take a shower, too. Just as soon as he can find the energy to move his fucking legs.

When he finally drags himself inside, he finds Justine sitting at the dining table typing. Up early, he thinks, but can’t quite get the words out of his mouth.

“Hey,” she says, looking up from her writing to find him swaying on his feet. “I take it the shooting schedule is still fucked?”

“Yep.”

“Figured. I made you some breakfast. I mean, if you want it.”

It’s a risk, given her culinary skillset, but he’s too tired to care. “Yeah. Thanks.” Too tired even for sarcasm, apparently, which is new. She brings him desiccated scrambled egg and sad sausage patty. It’s a mark of how hungry he is that it disappears in seconds. He finds his head nodding over the empty plate. “Fuck. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“Pretty sure that’s what you’re already doing,” she returns, taking the plate. “You also need to ring Ruth.”

“What? Why?”

“Because she’s left about fifty fucking answerphone messages? I can hear them through the wall if I’m working in my room,” she adds, vaguely accusatory.

Fuck. That’s something he needs to bear in mind in the future. “Is she okay?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to listen to what she was saying.” She’s annoyed at something, he can tell, even through the haze of exhaustion. Quite what, though— “I thought you were dating someone else now?” she adds, clearly uncomfortable. 

Ah. “It’s—I’m not dating anyone. Jesus. I’ve not got the fucking time.” 

“Well, whatever. Do you need a wake-up call?”

“Please. Uh, better make it eleven.”

“That’s, like, four hours from now…”

“Believe me, I know.” There’s still something else under her skin. He’s too tired to play fucking guessing games. “Is… Uh… What’s going on with you, anyway?”

She gives him a black look. Admittedly he could have phrased the question better. “Nothing.”

He sighs. “Look, I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m just fucking exhausted and it’s all I’ve got left to work with. C’mon. Talk to me.” 

She opens her mouth to lie but takes in his grey face and finds an ounce of pity instead. “It’s just this admissions essay,” she admits. “I don’t know why I’m finding it so hard...”

“Hmm. Want me to read it?”

“No. You’ve not got the time—”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap. I’ll make time for this. You know that.”

She squashes a smile in response. “Alright. Not in front of me, though—"

“I know, I know.” He pushes his chair back, stumbling slightly over his own feet. “Have a copy ready by eleven.”

“See you then.” 

He shuts the door to his bedroom and pushes the button on the answer-machine. Stripping to his boxers, discarding his clothes in a pile on the floor for a man who’s had more sleep to deal with later, while he listens to Ruth stumble over leaving him a simple message.

_Beep_

“Oh, hey! Guess you’re out. Still at work. Um, I’ll try again later. Bye!”

_Beeep_

“Hey. I was hoping you’d be back by now… but I guess not. Obviously. Uh. Bye. Bye.” 

_Beeeeeep_.

“Hi. Sam. I know you’re… you’re probably really busy, and this is the… Oh, God. The third message I’ve left, so I am going to stop calling you now. I just— um. Well, I just quit the tour! And I am… freaking out. Just, just little bit! Uh. And you’re clearly not home. And Debbie’s not home. But I’ll be fine. It’s fine. Really. So… I’m just gonna – just gonna hang up now. Sorry for bothering you. Sorry. Bye.” 

He smiles, in spite of himself, shaking his head as he dials the latest motel room number. 

“This is Ruth Wilder speaking—”

“Hi.”

“Sam! It’s early. Is everything—?”

“Not been to sleep yet. Night shoot overran. So, you know, be gentle with me.”

“You should go to bed. I can talk to you later—”

“Fuck knows when I’ll get another chance to call you, Ruth. The schedule’s all gone to hell.” He rubs his eyes. “It’s a goddamn nightmare.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. It’s… nice to hear your voice, though.” He screws up his face in instant regret as soon as _those_ words have left his mouth. That’s fucking exhaustion, he thinks, robbing him of his emotional armor—

“It’s nice to hear you, too,” she says. Sounding surprised but pleased at the soft sentiment. “I, um. I did it. I pulled the trigger.”

“Good. How’s it feel?”

“Terrifying? But also… a relief. I think. I don’t know. I’m— I’m flying back tomorrow.”

“Woah. That’s quick. Did you… kick the tenant out of your old apartment already?”

He has no fucking clue why that, of all questions, is the one he’s chosen to ask. What’s he going to do? Ask her to move in with him? Into this shitty duplex that’s starting to resemble a student dorm room as he gradually loses the battle to keep Justine’s shit in her room rather than the rest of his house?

“No, no. I’m… going to stay with Debbie, actually. Until, you know, I sort out the whole sub-let nightmare.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good.”

“Yeah, I think so,” she says carefully. “We can talk about things. Catch up.”

“I’d… uh, I’d offer to pick you up from the airport or something, but—”

“I know you’re busy Sam.”

“Yeah.”

He’s been dreaming of her being in the same city. And now it’s finally happening they’re all out of alignment again. The connection they’ve rebuilt in the last few months is a fragile thing, he realizes. Maybe sustained by distance rather than diminished by it. She’s not going to want to hang out on the set of a movie that rejected her; and it’s not so much a monkey on his back at this point as it is King fucking Kong. Consuming his life, patience and sanity.

There’s never been much chance of a happy ending for them. He’s always known that. It’s been a thing in the moment, and maybe they’re reaching the end of those moments. And it’s probably for the fucking best. What’s he got to offer her, in the end—?

“Did you fall asleep?”

“No. No, I’m still here.”

“Well, you should get some rest. Look after yourself.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll… give you a call once I’m back in town. See if we can find a time to—to meet for a coffee or something.”

Maybe he’s just misreading Ruth-ish awkwardness, but that feels like a line being drawn in the sand. He screws up his face, like he’s resisting physical pain. “Sure,” he hears himself lie. “That’d be… that’d be nice, Ruth.”

He can hear her sharp intake of breath, betraying other words almost spoken aloud, and then hastily swallowed. “I’ll see you soon, then?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I’m sure you will.”

“Bye…”

“Bye.”

He puts down the phone and stares at the ceiling for a while, too hollowed out to feel much more than a sort of weepy ennui. Eventually exhaustion simply overwhelms him, and he falls into deep and thankfully dreamless sleep. 

* * *

_—writing this kind of personal story feels like the first step on my path to becoming an authentic storyteller. In Hollywood, the struggle to find that kind authenticity is ever present, and I want_ _—_

He squints, turning his head as he considers the latest draft of Justine’s words. It almost feels like he’s reading her fucking diary; raw and deep. He can’t remember what he wrote in his own admissions essays, eons ago. One long plea to take a chance on his chequered grades, he suspects. To please, _please_ give him the option of not dying in godforsaken nowhere if his number came up in the draft.

He puts the paper down and sighs. Sitting on the steps behind an empty sound stage, looking out over the employee parking lot. The latest place he’s found to retreat when he needs some time alone in his own head. It won’t last. Someone will spot him before too long, and it will go on Carl’s list of places to find Sam, and he’ll be back to square one.

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy directing. It’s just all the other shit that comes with it. What Ruth would probably call the ‘making people feel seen and heard.’ What he thinks of as a complete and utter waste of fucking time.

He picks up the paper again, staring at the words in black and white without seeing them. She’s out there somewhere. In the night-time city. The glow of it is white orange in the dark sky, beyond the walls of the lot that increasingly feel like his prison. He wonders what she’s doing. If she’s thinking of him right now in this moment as he’s thinking of her, some act of grand cosmic coincidence. Probably not. She’s probably eating dinner with Debbie. Or… or fucking _bowling_ or… Something, anyway. Something not with him.

He really fucking misses her. That’s the miserable truth of it, all wrapped up. And he should probably just call her; definitely just call her; but he’s scared out of his goddamn mind that when he does it’s going to get twisted up and weird again. The memory of her, naked against him, smiling up at him, seems to live just underneath his ribs. Every so often it resurfaces, twisting up his innards and making his heart lurch, and for _what_? Maybe it’s easier to live with that like a coal in his chest forever rather than face reality. The fact that one insane evening together - of truth and trust and sex and show business - probably meant less to her than it did to him. That the idea of working together, _being_ together, isn’t where her heart truly lies.

It’s always been hazy. The only time he believes she might feel the same is when she’s kissing him, or fucking him, or telling him that she’s _proud_—

“Mr Sylvia?”

Of course, it’s Carl, approaching with a suitably nervous expression. “Goddamit,” he sighs.

“I’m really sorry to bother you, sir. It’s just, your daughter rang, and there’s a woman at the front desk. She said it’s—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know the drill.” Probably another fucking executive, or the wife of one. Come to sniff around. Maybe try to stick an oar in, if they’re feeling like an ego trip this evening. He stumps his way over. “Hey,” he says as he pulls open the door. Not disguising his contempt terribly well. “We’re prepping for a night shoot, so a tour will have to wait—

He looks up to find Ruth. Biting her lip, waiting for him to notice who it is that’s actually come to see him. “Hi,” she says, soft. “I know that you’re shooting, and that you probably don’t have time—”

“No, no. I’m just a fucking _idiot_—”

“I bought you dinner,” she says. “I called your house again and Justine picked up and she said you were here and that you might like some actual food. So. That’s… that’s why I’m here.”

There is a beat. A moment that’s all big blue eyes turned up at him, asking the question without saying the words. _Is this what you want? _

He crosses to her, taking her face in his hands, and kisses her. And maybe one day it will stop feeling like the world’s about to end and this is the last thing he’ll ever get to do. Not today though.

She breaks the kiss eventually, but stays in his arms. Her thumb tracing his cheek. “Are you like this with all the lunch ladies?”

“You should see what happens when they bring me cake.”

She laughs, pressing her lips to his. “How long have you got?”

“Ah, fuck.” He glances at the clock behind the reception desk. “About twenty minutes?”

She almost manages to hide her disappointment. “Well, let’s—let’s eat then—”

“Okay, okay—”

“—mmf. The food, Sam. Not _me_—”

“I know, I know.” Still, she doesn’t seem too unhappy at his apparent inability to put her down. “I can’t believe you came.”

“Well, me neither,” she says carefully. “It wasn’t easy. You know, it's been a week, and you didn't return my call. But I wanted to see you. And this is… apparently where you live now.”

He sniffs a laugh. “Three more weeks.” There’s still editing, of course, all to come. But the madness of principal photography will be over and maybe there’ll be time for something resembling a life again. 

“Please don’t… Please don’t make me wait all that time to see you again?”

“Oh, God—” He kisses her again, so hard it almost hurts. “I’m sorry. I won’t. I— fuck. I just wasn’t sure if you wanted—”

“Really?” she says, wrinkling her nose in disbelief. “I mean, I thought I’d made things pretty clear…”

“Did I not already mention the part where I’m a fucking idiot?”

She laughs, running her hand along his chin again. “You did. Come on. I’m starving too. Let’s eat something before you have to disappear…”


	11. Right words

“Maybe… turn it around? That’s it. Now it fits.”

He shakes his head at her pointless commentary, as he crams the last of the contents of her storage locker into his car. “This everything?”

“Yes.”

“Alright…” He slams the door. “Ugh. Traffic’s going to be a fucking nightmare.” He catches her eye. “What? I want to spend time with you. Just not, you know, trapped on the freeway...”

“Well, we’re not taking the freeway.” She brandishes a map, lined with colorful highlighting. “Alternative route planning.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he returns, not quite _sotto voce_, and climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Okay.” She clicks in her seat belt, absorbed in her navigational mission. “We’re going to take the first right. Um. I think.” She turns the map in her lap ninety degrees and then back again, frowning.

“Ruth?”

She looks up at him. “What?”

He kisses her. “The map is upside down.”

“No, no, it’s—” She studies it some more. “Okay, fine.” She orients it correctly. “It’s a left, not a right.”

He shakes his head again as he starts the car, but takes the first left against his better judgement.

* * *

“Is it level?”

“No, I think it’s too low on the other side now.” He nudges the picture frame down on the right, arms screaming at him in this awkward, outstretched position. They’ve been doing this for what feels like days. “Ah, that’s a little too much…”

He turns to give her a look. Sitting cross legged on her bed, watching him suffer. Trying and failing to hide her grin. “What?” he says. 

“Nothing, nothing.”

He leaves the frame crooked, coming to tackle her flat. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No, no—” she laughs, burying her face in his shoulder for a moment to try and control her amusement.

He finds he is laughing himself now, in that stupid giddy way that belongs to her and no one else. “Well, the joke’s on you,” he declares. “Now you’re stuck with it like that forever, because you’re too short to fucking reach it.”

“Oh, no,” she returns, faux dramatic. “If only I didn’t have something like a _chair_ that I could use to stand on…” 

“Alright, alright...” 

He loses himself to kissing her for a time, his hands finding their way beneath her horrible brown sweater. It’s a truly hideous piece of knitwear, but he’s been driven to distraction by it all day, fairly convinced she’s not wearing anything else underneath. She makes the right kind of noise as he confirms his suspicions, pressing her hips against his growing erection.

“How’d you feel about breaking in this bed?” he growls. 

“Um," she squeaks, and he can see her throat move as she swallows her nervousness. "Positive?”

And there’s something about her shy, lip-biting smile she offers him now that flips a primal set of switches in his brain. Any last vestige of self-control he was clinging to is out of the window.

“C’mere,” he says, pulling her up to kneel on the new mattress, so he can drag that sad sack of a sweater over her head. She does the same with his tee shirt, running her hands up over his body before pulling them together again. He intends to lay her down and make good on his statement of intent, but she’s resisting the pressure of his kiss. “What—?” She doesn’t speak but angles her head toward the mirror they’ve installed, opposite the bed. Realization dawning as he takes in their half-naked reflections. “Ohhh,” he says. “Smart.”

“Well, I mean, it has the best light there, too…”

He’d believe this innocent explanation more easily if she wasn’t unbuckling his belt as she said it. “Mm-hm,” he replies, as his jeans fall to his knees. He extricates himself from them with as much dignity as he can manage, and watches his mirror-self pull her pants down in retaliation. It’s fucking hot, there’s no denying.

“D’you… do you like it?”

He drags his eyes away from their entwined avatars. “Yeah.” Takings her anxious face in his hands to press a softer, gentle kiss to her lips. “Don’t you?”

“I’m… coming around to it,” she says slyly. She turns away from him, so he can see her whole body in the mirror now. His hands moving over her; the faces she’s making in response to his touch.

“Jesus Christ, Ruth.” He kisses the back of her neck, his hand slipping between her legs, finding her slick. “Fuck.”

She arches into him in response, reaching around to twist her fingers into his hair. “Please,” she breathes.

It’s easy to choreograph. One of those moments where keeping themselves apart was costing more effort. His hands guide her hips; his eyes find the Ruth in the mirror. Watching her reaction as he takes her from behind.

Of course, she’s an actress. But he wants to believe it’s all real. Her eyes-closed, lost-in-the moment expression of bliss; the way she pants and moans. He wants to believe the way she says his name, all choked-up with need, isn’t just for his titillation. If he was a better man he’d just fucking _ask_. But he is who he is, and real or not, it works on him. Jesus _Christ_ does it work on him. He gives up; gives in to his baser self. Watching himself fuck her in the mirror until he can’t think at all anymore; can’t think—can’t—_fuck_—

And here they are, together again, in another gasping aftermath. That strange feeling of relief as she willingly curls up with him. Nose to nose, his hand stroking through her hair unthinking. Drunk on her; the one vice he’s still allowed.

“You know, I like it when you get days off,” she says eventually.

“Me too.” He has, in fact, called in every favor he’s owed to scrape this time together. It feels worth it right now.

“And thanks for helping me finish moving in.”

It’s a crummy apartment in a fairly shitty part of town. He worries, hazily, what that comparison with Debbie’s presumably palatial new home is going to do to her over time. Still, it has the advantage of being solely her own, which they’ve been missing for a while. “It _was_ pretty good of me, right?”

She laughs. “Yeah. It was, uh… supportive. Like a— uh, never mind...”

He’s watching her nerve fail in real time. Betrayed by the sudden sadness in her smile, the fact she’s no longer able to quite meet his eyes. “Like a supportive what?” he says. Pushing his luck; always a risk with Ruth.

“I don’t know!” she lies. “Like a… a supportive… boyfriend?” She says the word so tentatively, it’s almost as if she’s expecting a blow.

He frowns. “Is that what you want to call me?”

“Not if you—Is it not—? Are we not… there yet?”

He almost laughs at the absurdity of this statement but catches himself in time. “Ruth…” He kisses her. “I love you. You can call me whatever the fuck you want. Boyfriend just feels a little… high school, that’s all.”

He watches the agony of her reaction; fear and shock and who the fuck knows what else. It’s not something he really understands, but he knows her well enough that he isn’t expecting her to say the same back, at least. 

“I—”

“Look, I was planning on taking you out for dinner tonight, but… Well, I think I prefer the dress code in here.” He runs his fingers up along her spine. An obvious diversion, but they need a way off this emotional precipice before they crash and burn again. “What d’you think?”

Her smile flickers back, now they’re in more comfortable territory. “I think…” she says, tracing the line of his collar bone, “…we could investigate the local take-out options?”

“Hmm. _Not_ fucking pizza.”

She breathes a laugh. “Okay, alright. Hmm. How do you feel about Chinese…?”

* * *

Dawn wakes him before any alarm, sunlight invading through the thin curtains. It’s not particularly early, given the time of year, but he has until this afternoon gloriously free of anyone else’s demands. He could turn over and try and find more sleep.

Instead, he finds he is watching Ruth.

She looks like a fucking painting. The sheet she’s partly wound around herself during the night only highlights how breath-taking she is nude. The lines of her body; the curve of her breasts; her skin seems almost luminous in the half-dark. It’s the stuff of classical sculptors — or maybe art house pornographers, and he’s a fan of both. She’s sprawled out, taking up far more than her fair share of the bed, and if not snoring lightly then at least breathing noisily. Somehow still so perfect it makes his chest hurt.

He lies still, quiet; unwilling to break the spell of this moment even though he’s aching to touch her. And there must have been others, he tells himself. Other women he’s loved like this. At some point in his life, he’s sure.

He just can’t fucking remember, that’s all.

He watches her travel back to consciousness. A subtle change in the rise and fall of her chest. Something tightening in the way she holds her face, and she’s blinking awake before his eyes. They’ve not really managed a moment like this before. There’s always been an alarm; a plane to catch; a reason to rush.

She sighs happily, somehow finding a few extra inches to stretch out in the bed. How someone so small can take up so much space, he’s got no fucking clue. “Good morning,” she says through a sleepy smile. “Did you… sleep okay?”

“On my remaining six inches of mattress? Yeah, it was okay.”

She laughs, putting her arms around him, pulling him towards her in the middle of the bed. Bodies pressed together now; her skin warm against his. “Better?” 

“Better,” he agrees, before she claims his mouth again.

It’s a soft kiss, sweet and gentle in comparison to the night before. They’re both carrying the marks of each other, after _that_ desperate outpouring of need. She settles into his arms, head on his chest. Reaching across to find his hand and knitting their fingers together. It's fucking ridiculous, really, but for once he’s not willing to give himself a hard time over it. He drops his face into her hair and breathes in the smell of her instead.

“I can hear your heart beating,” she says after a while. 

His stomach drops sickly. It’s just a cute line, he tells himself. That’s all. “Well, it’s good to know I have one.” He swallows, trying to lose the dry mouth. “What’s it, uh, what’s it sound like?”

“Loud,” she returns. He can feel her smile against his skin. “Like the rest of you.”

“Hah.”

And he has to fucking tell her, he suddenly realizes. It’s not fair on her, to start building this thing together when their foundations might turn out to be sand—

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I, um… I love you too.”

Oh, _fuck_.

“You know, you don’t have to say it if—”

“I know. But — I do. I love you.” She turns her face up to his as she continues. “And I want to see where this goes. Be together. If, you know, that’s really what you want…”

“I do,” he says. “You know I do. I—God—”

He kisses her, before his mouth can run on any further. He has to tell her, but he’s lost her to a bout of noble honesty once before, and he’s damned if he’ll make that same mistake again. He can find Cynthia after a meeting maybe. See if there’s a crib sheet: _How to tell your significant other you’ve royally fucked yourself with a lifetime of shitty decision making. _Or something more snappily titled. There’ll be a way, the tells himself. The right words are out there somewhere.

He just can’t think of them right now, that’s all.


	12. Something important

“Hey. So.” He clears his throat, awkward. Justine still isn’t listening, her fork in the air as it has been for the last three minutes by the clock. She’s engrossed in a screenplay propped next to her plate. He watches her turn the page, still holding a meatball aloft. “So, I’m moving to a farm on Fiji,” he says, folding his arms. “Thinking I’m going to breed horses. Maybe a couple of cows. I mean, who gives a fuck, right? Certainly not you.”

“Mmm,” she says, nodding. Taking a bite of her meatball, surely cold by now.

“Jesus Christ, Justine.”

“What?” she snaps, finally looking at him.

“Could you listen for five fucking minutes? This is important, alright?”

“Jesus. Alright, fine. I’m listening.” She folds the screenplay closed with exaggerated care.

“Whose is that, anyway? Jonathan’s?”

“_No_,” she scowls. “I thought you had something important to say?”

“Right. I do.” It’s just incredibly awkward to say, apparently, now he’s staring down the barrel of it. He clears his throat noisily again. “Uh. Tomorrow. Dinner… I invited Ruth to join us. And—”

She holds up a hand to quiet him. “Please, stop. Is this your incredibly fucking awkward way of telling me that Ruth’s going to stay over?”

He fiddles with his fork. Displacement activity for when, in his previous life, he’d be lighting up a cigarette. “Yes,” he says eventually.

“Noted.” She spears another meatball. “Are we done?”

He sighs, shaking his head. “Fucking teenagers. Yeah, we’re done.”

She winds spaghetti, and he uses the momentary distraction to swipe the screenplay. “Oh, now who’s being childish?” she scoffs.

It’s his; the one he never got around to showing her. He recoils in surprise. “Where the fuck did you get this?”

“You left it on your desk. C’mon. You thought I’d let the latest Sam Sylvia feature just sit there?”

“Oh, Christ…”

“What? I like it! I think it’s dramatic and… fun. The whole father – daughter thing is different. But you know, it’s still _you_.”

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?”

“It’s visceral. And, and shocking. Funny in places. You should — you should pitch it—”

“Oh, come on—”

“I’m serious! I mean, I have some notes. But I think there’s something in it.”

He looks up at the ceiling, shaking his head. How the tides have turned, he thinks. She’s offering _him_ notes. And he’s thinking he’ll fucking take them, too. “How’s this?” he says. “You can co-write the second draft with me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I have a pretty good handle on the washed-up ex Sheriff guy, but I know the mysterious daughter needs a lot of work.”

She smiles for a second, and then remembers herself, nodding down at her plate. “Yeah. That sounds … I’d like that.”

“Good.”

She pours herself a glass of water. “So, you and Ruth, huh?”

“Don’t… make a thing about it—”

“I think it’s great. I like Ruth. You’re… good for each other.”

“Well, you know your approval is important to me about these things.”

She laughs. “You’re such an asshole.”

“I know. I know.” He picks at the pasta on his own plate for a moment. “Actually, while you’re listening, there’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Well, that sounds ominous.”

He sits back on his chair, putting his hand into his pocket and finding the token that lives there. Turning it over as he speaks. “I don’t you know if you’ve noticed but… uh… I got sober.”

He passes the plastic chip over to her. She gives it a cursory examination, more skeptical than he anticipated. “I mean, I knew you’ve been working out more and smoking less. But you’ve really given up… everything?”

“Yeah. No booze, no drugs. No cigarettes, even.” One day he might even stop dreaming about them, he thinks. 

She hands back the token. “Is it... for Ruth, or—?”

“No! Well, I dunno. Maybe it helps. I don’t think she’s the biggest fan of the whole booze and blow scene.” There is a brief pause where they both consider Ruth in relation to that hedonistic culture and have to reprogram their faces. “Anyway, no. It’s… for me.”

“You just, decided one day?” 

There’s the problem. Justine’s smart. She knows people don’t usually make a change without a reason. He sighs. “No. I had a check-up. At the hospital. And, uh.” He coughs. Time for version one of his confession. “Well, they told me that my heart wasn’t… doing so great.”

She’s looking more stricken than he’d hoped, when he was putting those words together in his head. This is the sanitized version of the truth, after all, avoiding the words that still really scare him. “What does that even mean?”

He shrugs. “I damaged it. You know, it turns out they’re not joking around when they say those things’ll kill you—”

“But it’s better now?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s better.” He grits his teeth for a second, but he’s started this; has to finish it. “Some of it I won’t be able fix. You know, two months sober doesn’t just cancel out twenty… thirty fucking years of being an idiot. But I’m doing okay. I’m not… you know, dying right this second.”

He expects sarcasm in response. Instead she’s covered her mouth with her hand, eyes on the table rather than him. He has the horrible feeling she’s trying not to cry.

“Justine? Fuck. I _knew_ I shouldn’t have told you—”

“I’m not upset because you’ve told me!” she snaps. Voice thick, but there’s enough of her old Dad in there that she’s refusing to let the tears fall. Cloaking them instead in a veil of anger. “I’m upset because I don’t want you to fucking _die_.”

“Well, that’s why I got fucking sober. Why I’m dragging myself out running, and—”

“I know! I’m glad! It’s just… a _lot_—”

“Look, just, c’mere. C’mere.” He finds her hand on the table, squeezing it tightly. Not enough, he can tell. He stands to fold her into a hug instead. “I’m not planning on going anywhere,” he says, when she puts her arms around him. “I promise. I mean, Jesus. We just agreed to co-write a movie.”

She laughs at that, in spite of herself, drawing back to better see his face. “Good. Because … I like having a Dad.”

“Yeah.” He’s distressingly close to weepy himself now. “I like being one. Your one, anyway.”

“Oh, come _on_—"

“I know, I know, it surprises me too.” He lets her go. “I’m pretty fucking proud of you. Most of the time.”

Because whatever else happens, whatever he fucks up next, there’s at least this one thing he hasn’t managed to ruin on contact.

“Well… Same.”

“Alright.” He sinks back into his chair. “So, can you help your old man decide what the fuck to make for dinner tomorrow?” 

She takes her own seat. “Is it so hard? I mean, it’s not like you haven’t made dinner for Ruth before.”

“I know, I know…”

“This is different? Why?”

“I—” He waves a hand, as if the gesture can somehow convey the complications of the emotional situation. It can’t. “Oh, God... Because she’s my fucking girlfriend.” He’s not sure he’s said those words out loud before. They sit less strangely on his tongue than he thought they might. “I want to impress her. Go ahead, make fun of me.”

“Why would I make fun? It’s… nice that you feel that way. Um. The steak you did the other week was pretty good?”

“Ah, not steak.” He shakes his head. “Just trust me, there’s a weird back history.”

“Well, what about something Sicilian?”

He looks down at the remains of their current dinner. “You alright with pasta two nights in a row?”

“I mean, for the sake of true _love_—”

“Oh, my God. You know, you’re not so old I can’t reinstate a fucking curfew.”

“You can try…” 

* * *

“So, it turns out Todd is really fucking scared of heights, right?” he says. He’s mapping the scene with his hands, so animated he almost accidentally upends the water jug.

“Right…” says Ruth, still somewhat at sea.

“So, guess which idiot ended up on the cherry picker to get the shot?” Justine cuts in.

“No! You climbed a cherry picker?”

“Yeah! I had a… a fucking harness and everything.” 

“I wish I could have seen that.”

“I think Justine got a photo, right?”

“Yeah! It’s even one I’ve got developed. Hang on a second…”

She extricates herself from the table to go and find it, leaving them alone together for the first time since Ruth rang the doorbell. Sitting either side of the table holding a mismatched assemblage of elderly plates, chicken bones, and dishwasher-scratched glasses; the remains of their dinner together.

“You alright?” he checks. She’s doing a good job of hiding any residual awkwardness she feels after the whole failed audition thing, but he thinks he can feel the edge of it, just under the surface. “We can – I mean, I can stop going on about—”

“I like hearing about your work,” she says, shaking her head. “Whatever else happened… I think it’s great that you and Justine are getting the chance to do this.”

He almost believes her. Almost. Justine’s return with a photo album interrupts any further investigation. He was surprised by the existence of the faux-leather bound book at first. Almost too sentimental a thing for her, perpetual cynic that she is. But making your first movie is a pretty big fucking deal, he reminds himself. And most people like to look back on things. It’s probably easier when you’re not reflecting on one long timeline of increasingly painful personal disasters—

“Wow,” says Ruth, turning to page one. Him and Justine, the same cross-armed stance, standing on the lot. “I like the shirt.”

“Thanks.”

“I should… come visit again before you finish,” she says, turning more pages. “Gosh. It’s so huge.”

“Well, the wrap party is next Friday,” Justine says, far less subtle than she thinks she is. “Sam still needs a date.”

“Thanks,” he says, sarcastic. “But I’m a fucking grown up, I’ll be fine by myself.” He catches Ruth’s eye, and suddenly realizes he’s not so much shot himself in the foot as blasted his whole goddamn leg off. “Uh. I mean, unless you – you actually wanted to come with me?”

She opens and closes her mouth, the enigma of a yes or no answer eluding her. “I mean I – I _could_. But, not if you don’t want—”

His gaze drifts sideways to Justine, watching the show with a kind of fascinated horror. Fuck it, he thinks, and clears his throat to call a halt to their awkward circus. “Ruth. Will you save me from an evening of insufferable young people and come to the wrap party? Please?”

Christ, it’s worse than middle school, waiting for her answer. Nailed to his chair by her anxious blue eyes, as she considers her options.

“Yes,” she says.

“Great.”

“Wow.” Justine, not quite able to reign in her sarcasm, breaks their stare. “On _that_ note, I’m going to go do some work on my admissions essay…”

“Oh, you’re applying for college?”

He’s half tempted to kick Ruth under the table. This is their chance to _not_ have their every interaction provide Justine’s entertainment, thank you very much—

“Yeah. I’m going to look at the NYU campus with Rosalie next week…”

“Wow. NYU? That’s – that’s _great_.”

“I mean, I still have to actually get in.”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll be impressed with everything you’ve done already. I mean, come on! Eighteen, and you’ve already written your first movie?” She doesn’t sound bitter at all, but there’s that _edge_ of something again, he can hear in her voice.

Justine shakes her head, oblivious. “If it does well, I guess they might care… Otherwise.” She shrugs. “I’ll need a really great essay.”

They clear the table together once she’s made her escape, carrying plates and cutlery through into the kitchen. He catches hold of her hand and pulls her in for a kiss, once she’s put down the ceramics. It still has the shock of the unfamiliar; still leaves them both grinning like fools. 

“You really planning on being away for the whole week?”

“Mm-hm. We’ve got to convince Carmen that we’re serious.”

“I know, but—”

“But…?”

“I’ll miss you.” He strokes a curl of hair behind her ear. “Not, you know, a lot. But definitely some of the time.”

“Oh, really?” She leans up to kiss him again. “Well, apparently I’m now your date for the wrap party. So, that’s something to look forward to.”

“Look, I know it’s not ideal, given everything that’s happened...”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure that I exactly… care anymore.”

“Yeah. I get it.” He’s not sure he believes her, not completely; but he wants to. “You’re doing your own thing.”

“Right.” 

He rubs his thumbs across her skinny shoulders. “Come to bed.”

She laughs at that. “It’s not even nine o’clock—”

“I didn’t say to go to fucking _sleep_.”

“Sam! Justine’s room is right next door! We can’t just—”

Right on cue, the music starts. The drumbeat; the loud guitar. _“I went to see an old friend of mine. His sister came__—” _

“You see?” he says, triumphant. “Problem solved.”

“Hmm,” she growls, but she takes his hand and follows him to his room, nonetheless.

* * *

He pulls into the tree-lined avenue; squinting at the numbers on mailboxes counting down to Debbie’s new address. “Woah.”

“I know, right?”

As he expected, it’s ludicrously upmarket. “You want me to park down the street, so they don’t see us together?”

“No, Sam. They know that— Well, I don’t—” She stops, twisting her hands together briefly in the agony of explanation. “I’m not ashamed of this.”

“I know. Me neither.” He’s just scared, that’s all, that exposure to reality might pop the fragile dream he’s been inhabiting since she’s returned.

“Oh, this is it here. On the right.”

He turns into the driveway. Cherry and Debbie are cramming luggage into the trunk of a car. Approximately double the amount that Ruth has bought, he’s unsurprised to note. He crunches them to a halt, and they step out of his car into the morning sunlight together.

“I feel like there should be some sort of APB going out,” he says, nodding a greeting to them both. “Not sure the Phoenix wrestling circuit is going to know what’s hit it.”

“Well, that’s the plan, Sam,” Debbie says. “Um. Is that… all you’re bringing?” she adds, as Ruth deposits her own luggage in the trunk.

And it’s strange, to see the three of them striking out together like this. Not one of them the women he once thought they were. Or perhaps, he thinks, they’ve all simply moved and grown and changed. Even him.

He gives Ruth a kiss on the cheek before he takes his leave. A chaste thing; his long goodbye, the real farewell, was stretched out across the night before. Ridiculous, he knows, when she’ll be back in just a week. But she is ridiculous, makes him ridiculous, and always has. 

“Good luck,” he says. “I hope Carmen sees sense.”

“Me too." She bites her lip. "See you soon, Sam.”

“Bye, Ruth.”

He gets back into his car and heads onward into town; towards the lot and the home stretch now of filming. 


	13. Scars

“I can’t believe it’s all over,” says Justine. 

“Eh, don’t count your chickens. There’s always the possibility of re-shoots. Plus, there’s editing, ADR, promos—”

“Oh, my God. Will you stop?”

They’re sitting on the fake bleachers, on the darkened set. It’s time to go home really. But he remembers how hard it was, from his own first movie, to let things go. So, he’s giving Justine a few more minutes.

That’s definitely the reason they’re still here, he tells himself. Not because of the idea, or the seed of one at least, that’s been like a splinter in his brain for the last few days.

The thing is, for all his words of caution, this probably _is_ the last time the set will ever look quite right for what he has in mind. Tomorrow they’ll strike it. New productions will move in and the moment will be lost. In a very real sense, it’s now or never. 

“Stay here,” he says, jumping to his feet.

“What? How does that—? Were you even _listening_?”

Belatedly, he realizes she may have continued talking while he was lost in thought. “I’m serious. Don’t move.”

“You’re being majorly weird!” she calls after him, but for once he’s not interested in a comeback quip. He needs a camera. One of the shiny new Camcorder ones, that record on a VHS tape he can walk right out of here with. They’re light, mobile. Perfect for what he has in mind.

It takes him twenty minutes to sweet talk Andie on the news desk into lending him one. He’ll be very, _very_ lucky if Justine is still waiting for him; if she hasn’t just taken the car and driven home without him—

She’s still waiting, albeit majorly pissed off. “I know: I’m an asshole,” he says as she opens her mouth. “Just – I’ve got an idea, alright? I know you’ve left the acting career behind already, but will you do me a favor?”

“Maybe.” Intrigued by the camcorder, at least, if still angry. “What is it?”

“I want you to walk down the corridor past the lockers.”

“In the dark?”

“Yup. Pretty much.”

“You’ll hardly see anything.”

“That’s okay, that’s what I want.”

“…Okay…”

“Oh, and take this.” He passes her a wedge-shaped block of wood normally used for stopping runaway camera dollies.

“What for?”

“Because the reason you’re here is that you’re hunting a vampire through the school.”

She grins. “Like, the modern-day Abraham Van Helsing thing you were talking about with Ruth?”

“Yeah. But, you know, Jonathan had a point when we were talking about… uh, how did he fucking put it? The attention of the moment being on the youth subculture of here and now. Whatever. We’re not going to get anywhere pitching an update on Hammer Horror, is what I’m saying. Those days are long over. I rode out the coat tails of the last revival.”

“So, this is _Van Helsing High School_?”

“Yeah, maybe. He’s the cranky old headmaster, teaching a new generation of kids how to hunt monsters. That could work. But I don’t have a script to pitch yet and… I dunno. The world’s moved on. So why not make a concept reel to show studios?” She’s looking at him strangely. “What?” 

“Why are you always brilliant like this when it’s… right at the very last minute?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he lies. He knows _exactly_ why: it’s an easy way to protect his ego; half-assing shit so if it all goes wrong, he doesn’t have to feel too bad about it. Plus, there’s the bonus that if by some miracle it does all go _right_, he feels like a fucking genius. “So, are we doing this, or what?”

“Yeah, we’re fucking doing this,” she says, and points at the camcorder. “Do you know what you’re doing with that thing?”

He makes a face. “Just go find Laurel’s mark. We’ll start the walk-through from there…” 

* * *

Ruth runs down the stairs to open the door to her apartment building, rather than buzz him up. “Hi,” she says, smiling shyly. She’s wearing what can best be described as some sort of corduroy dungarees and left at that. Sexy in spite of this evening’s fashion choices, at least from his perspective. 

“Hey,” he returns. Holding his arms behind his back. “It’d be… really fucking corny if I’d bought you flowers to say welcome home, wouldn’t it?”

“You got me flowers?”

“No,” he says, revealing his empty left hand. “Like I said… too corny. I, uh, I did get two tickets to the late showing of _Lethal Weapon_ though.” He brandishes the pair of them. “Wanna go on a date with me?”

He’d quite like to bottle the feeling he has right now, he thinks. Looking at her caught between amusement and pleasant surprise, knowing he’s the cause of it. It’s as close to perfect as things can get. At least until she kisses him his answer and rose-tints his world even further. “Yes. Just let me get my purse—”

“It’s a date. I’ll fucking pay. C’mon, or we’ll miss the trailers.”

“Alright, okay.” She checks her pockets for her key and, satisfied, pulls the door shut behind her. “I mean, they are the best part...”

He takes her hand as they walk to his car. Catching her eye as their fingers twine; smiling soft at one another. It’s a fucking stupid thing to take his breath away, holding hands like high school sweethearts, but it does. And he can tell it’s one of those moments of pure synchronicity; the same weird joy that’s taken up residence in his chest is radiating out of her smile. Jesus Christ. 

“So,” he says, as they drive away. “You got Carmen back on board?”

“Yes. Wrestling co-ordinator and first on the call sheet. Leader of the Good Girls faction.”

“Wow…”

It’s not the decision he would have made. But, fundamentally, it’s not his show anymore. Ruth has to play things her way, and he can see how certain she is that this is the right move. A rare thing, in recent months.

“I know it sounds like a lot,” she continues. “But Carmen is the heart and soul of GLOW. It’s not going to work without her. As – as good as Cherry is as stunt co-ordinator, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

Does she think he’ll report her words back to Cherry? Or is she just such a fucking nice person she thinks to compliment her colleague in a moment she must know Cherry will never hear? Maybe the truth is somewhere in between.

Or sometimes he thinks, for Ruth, navigating the social world is a more complicated game. She’s bright enough to have learnt the rules well enough to play, but it never comes from a place of intuition. Hence her occasional weird sequiturs; the odd moments of self-absorption. People are a puzzle, but one she’s always working to solve.

It might be the exact opposite for him. He’s always found people remarkably easy to figure out, when he can be bothered to pay them any attention. It’s just that most are too fucking dull to make the effort with.

For once, parking is easy to find, and they stroll into the theater with time to spare. He buys her buttered popcorn; another tragic casualty of the cardiology diet and cause of twinging guilt. But now’s really not the time to tell her it’s necessity rather than virtue keeping his hand out of the paper bag. He puts his arm around her instead as they find seats together on the empty back row. And it slowly dawns on him, as she puts down her snacks and leans into his embrace, and as they kiss softly in the velvet dark; he’s not going to leave here with much of a goddamn clue what this movie is about.

Her fingers cup his cheek as she deepens their kiss.

On further reflection, he decides, he really doesn’t care. 

* * *

He leans against the wall outside the hotel, missing his cigarettes more fiercely than he has in weeks. His fingers find the sobriety token in his pocket instead. He’s being going long enough now to have earned his second, but it doesn’t seem to hold the same attraction as this one does. The magic talisman he turns in his fingers when they itch for another smoke. The weight he holds in the palm of his hand when he’d give anything, anything at all, for a drink or six...

A taxi pulls up, and his heart lifts again, in spite of the fact this is the fifth or sixth to arrive in almost as many minutes. This time it _is_ Ruth, stepping out onto the street in a dress he’s damn sure hasn’t come from her wardrobe. She doesn’t see him at first. Face anxious, drawing in a deep breath before she squares her shoulders, ready go in and find him…

And, grateful as he is to Justine for pulling the trigger for him, that reaction is exactly why he didn’t invite Ruth to the wrap party in the first place. Because it’s always going to hurt, at least a little bit. The rejection freighted by his failure to give her the job on this feature is never going away. For _either_ of them. She might have missed out on a part, but he got to experience the agonizing whiplash of being on the same emotional page for all of five minutes before she went into complete fucking meltdown. It’s like a scar. Things might have knitted back together, but there’ll always be a mark, no matter what they do.

“Ruth,” he calls. Her head snaps round and he’s relieved at the change in her expression at least. Anxiety melting into a smile at the sight of him. Christ knows what he’s done to earn that, but he can at least be fucking grateful about it.

“Hi.” She comes over to join him. “Cooling off already?”

“I wanted to catch you before you came inside,” he explains. “Jesus. I mean, I assume you already know how beautiful you look right now.”

“Really?” She can’t hold his gaze, wrinkling her nose as she looks down at the dress she’s wearing. It’s almost old fashioned in styling; the nipped-in waist and exaggerated shoulders he remembers from his younger days. But the black to neon green color transition is definitely a contemporary twist.

“Another win from the lost and found?”

She chuckles. “No. Actually, this was from Jenny. She’s back on board as costume designer, and I happened to mention I had a fancy party coming up…”

“Wow, the perks of power. Maybe I should have gotten her to make me a party dress when I had the—mmf…” They seem to be kissing, which wasn’t his intent, but is a nice bonus. “Look,” he says, forehead pressed to hers. “I just wanted to give you the chance to back out if… you know, if this isn’t what you want to do.”

“I… Well, it’s awkward,” she admits. “I don’t want to feel bitter, but—”

“Ruth, you’re talking to someone with a PhD in being fucking bitter. You don’t have to explain it to me—”

“—but I want to be here with you as well! I want to be… proud of you. I want to know what your life is like now.” She swallows. “It’s complicated.”

It’s his turn to laugh. “Well, what isn’t with you? Come on. Come inside and find out just how fucking ridiculous my life has been for the last three months. And once you’ve had enough, we can take off.”

“It’s your wrap party Sam, you can’t just—”

“Trust me. None of the children through those doors gives a flying fuck about whether I’m there or not.” He offers her his elbow, for them to walk in together. She takes it with a smile, and they enter arm in arm.

* * *

He’s nursing a small glass of orange juice, a fairly flimsy excuse to escape the stultifying conversational circle of studio executives, and lurk at the bar to watch Justine and Jonathan across the room.

“Deja-vu?” says Ruth with a smile, coming to join him.

“I told her not to fuck him until we finished shooting,” he explains, and she chokes on her sip of punch. “What?”

“I mean, I think it’s great that you have such an honest approach to parenting, but—”

“Jesus Christ, Ruth. I don’t _want_ to know that kind of thing about her life. But he’s our producer, you know? And I like the guy. I don’t think he’s a sleazebag, but—”

“—but she’s your daughter.”

“Yeah. And I know sometimes it seems like she’s the more grown up out of the two of us. But she’s not. And he’s so much older than her and… I know, I know; I’m a fucking hypocrite.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t think it’s quite the same.”

“I don’t either. I just want her to go to college and, you know, do all that shit before she finds the love of her life. And I’ve told her that.”

“And now you just have to see what she does,” Ruth nods. “It’s… hard.”

He drains the rest of his orange juice; too sweet on his tongue. The music changes from Madonna’s latest offering to something slow and a ballad-ish. Across the room, the star-crossed lovers are now slow dancing.

“Oh, God,” he says. “I can’t fucking watch this. It’s too fucking weird.”

“Well,” she says carefully. “I mean, _we_ could give dancing a try…”

He turns to her sharply; she’s very deliberately not looking at him. It’s another scar, he thinks. He could pretend they haven’t been here before and fucked it all up, but what good would that really do?

“I guess you _do_ have two working legs now,” he says slowly. 

“Mm-hm.”

He holds out his hand. “It’s been a while. I’m probably rusty.”

“I promise to be gentle with you,” she says, arch, as they find a space on the dance floor.

If he’d thought about it at all, he’d expect it to feel different now. It’s no longer a mystery, after all, what she feels like against him. What she looks like underneath her clothes. He’d expect the crackling electricity of being in one another’s arms to diminish.

Instead, if anything, it’s _worse_. His body knows how it fits with hers now and craves it. He knows what it means, when he brushes his fingers across the back of her neck, and she bites her lip in that particular way. It’s a fucking _effort_ frankly, not to kiss her senseless.

“Well, this was a bad idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“Now all I can think about is taking you home and out of that dress.”

She laughs. “Well, I’m kind of hoping that you will.”

He _does_ kiss her at that, albeit with less ferocity than his libido would like. “You know,” he says, when they break apart. “You really _are—”_

“Sam, I think something just happened.”

“What?”

“Justine just… left.”

“With Jonathan?”

“No, he’s over there by the bar.” He follows her gaze. The young man is indeed ordering a drink, and looking thoroughly miserable.

They exchange a look of confusion. “I, um, I think I’d better—”

She nods. “Go. Go talk to her.”

He presses another kiss to her mouth. “I’ll be back.”

“And I’ll be here. Now, go find her!" 


	14. The right thing to do

Justine proves remarkably difficult to find. She’s not outside, not in the saloon bar downstairs. He returns to Ruth after twenty minutes of searching, defeated. “I think she’s gone.”

“Home?”

“I don’t fucking know.” He glances over to the bar, where Jonathan is hunched over a glass of scotch. “Maybe I’ll go shakedown Romeo and find out what the fuck happened.”

“Sam, don’t be—”

“What?”

“Just, be careful, that’s all. You don’t want to upset—

“I’m not an idiot, Ruth!”

“No, but you are angry!”

“I’m not fucking angry! I’m – I’m irritated...” And aware of how ridiculous he sounds, even as he commits to the bit. “Trust me, there’s a difference.”

“In what, decibels?”

He scowls. “I’m just going to ask him, politely, where the fuck my daughter might have gone. Alright?” 

She sighs, shaking her head. “Do you want me to come with you?”

No, because he wants to lose his temper and he doesn’t like her seeing that side of him anymore. Which, he realizes, is rather the point of her offer to accompany him across the room. He makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “Do what you want, Ruth.”

She rolls her eyes at him for that but follows him to the bar. The pair of them flank the morose Jonathan. “Oh, hey,” he says. Impressively drunk considering he’s only twenty minutes into a bender. “I—I didn’t mean to upset her, Sam.” 

“What the fuck happened?”

“Nothing—”

“Try again." Clearly some shit has gone down, to explain the glaring absence of Justine. 

“No, honestly! Nothing is happening. That’s — that’s actually the problem.”

“You guys aren’t… dating?” Ruth asks. Of course, she’s a natural fit as good cop to his bad.

“No. I know she’s been waiting until filming is over to ask if I want to… And I do! It’s not that I don’t like her. We’re just, we’re meeting at the wrong time,” he sighs. For someone as restrained and frankly bloodless as Jonathan, Sam knows it’s the equivalent of wailing in anguish. “You know, I don’t want her to go to college and still have one foot here in LA. She needs to do her own thing. I told her that and… well… She got angry and stormed off outside.”

Sam folds his arms with a heavy sigh. Because apparently this is it; slumped over his third whiskey in a truly horrendous shiny brown suit; the last good man on earth. “Yeah,” he says, giving Jonathan an unenthusiastic pat on the shoulder. “Right call.”

Ruth is opening her mouth to offer more platitudes, but she catches his eye and follows him to the door instead. “You think she’s gone home?”

“No, I think she’s gone to spiral somewhere. Another bar, maybe.”

“Really? I mean, Justine is—”

“More like me when it comes to this shit than you’d think. Alright… If _you_ were eighteen and about to do something stupid, where would you go?” He looks at her and remembers who he’s talking to. “You know what, never mind—”

“Someone’s room,” she says heavily. “You know, this is why I hate wrap parties. There’s always something like this. People save all this tension up, and then it all… leaks out and… and…”

“Yeah,” he says. He knows where her dark path led, and it’s something he doesn’t like to dwell on these days. “That’s why I never stuck around for them.”

Admittedly he used to take quite a lot of the party with him; but no-strings-attached hiding from his own misery in the company of coke-fiends and hookers was always more his bag—

“We can’t just wander the hotel,” she says, interrupting his journey down memory lane as they step out into the corridor. “It’s too big.” She frowns. “Why don’t we try this a different way…? If she’s like you, what would you do now? Where would _you_ go?”

“Uh…” It’s not a pleasant thing to admit, but he’d go petty. “I guess I’d want to prove a fucking point. I never liked you anyway, I can do better…?”

“Wow,” she says, not quite under her breath. “So, what’s _better_—?”

She is interrupted by elevator. It _tings_ open and, as if on cue, Justine stumbles out.

“Oh, thank God,” says Ruth.

But it’s not relief that Sam feels, taking in her curious rag-doll posture and smudged make-up. She’s been gone no more than thirty minutes, and he’s fairly confident she can hold her liquor. Better than the wilting Jonathan can, at least. So, she’s either mainlined a copious amount in a very short space of time, or she’s wasted on something else.

She pitches forward. Lucky he’s a little quicker on his feet these days; catching her before she stumbles face first into the deranged patterned carpet. “Justine. What the fuck?”

She puts a hand to her forehead, face screwed up like she’s resisting pain. Sweating and pale. “I – I don’t feel well. And it’s all such a bunch of bullshit. Can we please go home?” 

“What did you take?”

“I don’t—I didn’t—”

“Hey. Hey. This is me. Not your mother. I’ll save the lecture for when you’ll remember it. But I need to know if I’m taking you home, or to the hospital. If you mixed booze with blow—”

“I only had whiskey. One glass.”

“Where were you?”

“In the member’s bar. With Will.”

“Will? Who the fuck is Will?”

“Winters.”

“Oh. The studio executive? What the fuck did _he_ want?”

She rolls her eyes. “To talk to me about my future? I can’t believe I was so fucking stupid.” 

A shard of ice slips down his spine. He catches Ruth’s stricken look; if Justine is pale, she’s the color of a corpse. “What happened?”

“Oh, God. I went outside to smoke, and he was there. We were talking about my follow-up feature and he suggested we go to the other bar because it’s quieter. Then—God, I don’t want to even say what he asked me to do. So fucking gross. And he put his hand on my knee, and – and I told him to go fuck himself.” She closes her eyes, despairing. Tears leaking onto her face now. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“What? Why the fuck are you _sorry_?”

“He’s an executive! We’ll be… we’ll be black balled.”

“Good,” he shrugs. “I don’t want to work for that kind of sleazebag. Do you?”

“No, but… everything we’ve done! All of that work! And I was so fucking careful about Jonathan – you _made_ me be so careful. And none of that even matters now. Don’t you _care_?”

“Of course I care! But there’s a difference between giving someone else the rope to hang you with and this kind of bullshit. Look, Justine, I’ve been doing this a long time. Trust me when I say you can suck a lot of dick in this town and _still_ not get what you want. You did the right thing. And you know what? I’ve played nice. I’ve given set tours and smiled at people I wanted to tell to go fuck themselves. That has to count for something. It’s not over yet.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Really? You think _I’d_ do something like that just to—?"

“—I’m going to throw up—”

“Outside.”

They practically drag her as she dry heaves, making it as far as the parking lot before she is spectacularly sick.

“Do you think he put something in her drink?” Ruth asks quietly, as he holds Justine’s hair.

“I dunno. Maybe. Probably. God damn it.”

“Well, we’re going to struggle to get a cab to take us.” She bites her thumb. “Maybe we should just call an ambulance?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve got my car. Sober, remember? I’ll drive us to the nearest hospital...” There is a break in the retching from Justine. “Hey. How are you doing?”

“Ugh,” she replies, weakly. “I don’t think there can be anything _left_ to—”

She vomits again, proving herself wrong.

* * *

He’s spent too much fucking time in hospitals recently.

It’s a little after three in the morning and he’s hunched in the visitor’s chair at Justine’s bedside. Watching her sleep. He’s missed out on this parenting experience until now, the whole sleepless night up with a sick child thing. It feels about as shitty as advertised. 

Shoes squeak on the corridor linoleum. A passing nurse, probably. They’ve been doing regular rounds monitoring Justine’s vitals. Everything reassuringly normal. Nothing untoward in the initial blood tests. They’ve put her on a drip, he figures because why the fuck not? They have to earn their money somehow.

The sound of the door sliding back makes him look around. Ruth returned, to his surprise. “Oh, you didn’t have to—”

“Clothes for Justine in the morning,” she whispers. “And I wasn’t sure if you’d want to change out of your tuxedo, so…”

So, she’s bought him jeans and a shirt. Changed her own clothes while she’s been at his house, too, into an old college tee shirt and sweatpants. Her de-facto pajamas when she sleeps over, or at least what she wears to breakfast. He will, he thinks, forever mourn the loss of his chance to take her out of the black and green dress.

He stands and pulls her into an embrace. “Thanks for coming with me to… yeah, I think the worst fucking wrap party I’ve ever been to.”

She chuckles into his chest. “Let’s… let’s _never_ do it again.”

He presses a kiss into her hair and decides to push his luck. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind seeing you in that dress again.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she returns. Still holding onto him tightly.

“You know, you don’t have to stay here with us all night. You can take my car; me and Justine can get a cab—”

“Like you went home when I broke my ankle?”

He draws back to see her face. “I mean, that was a little different—”

“Mr and Mrs. Biagi?”

They turn, as one, to the young doctor in the door. “Nope,” he hears himself say, letting go of Ruth carefully, “wrong on both counts. But I am her father. How’s she doing?”

“It’s good news. The tox screen came back clean, everything looks fine. We’ll keep her in for observation overnight just in case, but it looks like she got most of it out of her system herself.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

He turns back to Ruth, once the doctor has taken his leave. She’s slightly pink-cheeked. He’s not sure if that's from the general embarrassment of being interrupted mid-clinch, or the impromptu marriage by way of mistaken identity. “Thank God,” she says.

“Yeah.” He’s surprised himself at quite how shaky he feels. “Or something like that, anyway.”

* * *

Bright morning sunlight invades his room through unintended gaps in the curtains, catching the rising motes of dust. Everything feels over-saturated in the warm fug of exhaustion, fuzzy around the edges. They are home. Justine is safe. The question mark that hovers over the future of their movie is just that. A future still unknown.

And Ruth is kissing him, open mouthed and slow, as he moves inside her.

He took her to bed with the honest to God intention of sleeping, curled around her; nothing more. He’s not sure when that changed. At some point during their slow undressing maybe. When she unbuttoned his shirt; when he pulled her oversize tee shirt over her head. It became an inevitability when she put her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts into his hands and her lips against his.

She makes a soft sort of noise inside his mouth, angling her hips to better accommodate him. Fingers digging into his back as he pushes against her, trying to keep him buried deep where she wants him. He’s close, close. Drawing back to the end of her nose, so he can look her in the eyes as he thrusts harder, faster. She’s right there with him on the ragged edge of release. Her eyes flutter closed, and the face she wears carries him past the point of no return right along with her. 


	15. Grown-up stuff

“Maybe I— maybe I could write it all down in a letter?”

Cynthia sits back in her chair, pulling a face that for once has nothing to do with the terrible coffee. “I know you’re both Hollywood types, pet, but that sounds a bit dramatic.”

He crunches another stale cookie. That’s ten more minutes of pounding the sidewalk he owes in penance. “So, you think I should just, what? Lay it all out on the fucking line?”

“What is it you think you’re laying out?”

“That I don’t know how much time I have left.”

“Ah. Like the rest of us, then?”

He rolls his eyes, finding the sobriety token in his pocket instinctively. Rubbing his thumb over the patterned surface. He’s done it so often it’s starting to wear smooth. “Cute. But it’s not really the same, is it? I’ve got much shorter odds on a particular cause of death.”

“Well, that depends. How’s your blood pressure doing?”

“Eh…”

She narrows her eyes. “I’ll take that machine back if you’re not going to—”

“One thirty over eighty.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Cigarettes?”

“Nope. Not a one.” He sighs. “It was kind of a stressful fucking weekend. Justine wound up in the hospital and everything’s gone to shit with the project.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah. Well, mostly. She’ll be fine.”

“Hmm. If it stays high this week you should book a follow-up with Dr. Birch. You might need medicating, Sam. Most patients do—”

“Oh, God, I don’t want to take pills every day like some old guy.” He considers this, as she tries not to laugh at him. “Fuck.”

“Well, I know how you feel. I still get a shock sometimes at the old witch that lives in my mirror.”

“Oh, come on.”

“What?”

“You’re fishing for compliments. You know you’re still good-looking enough to give all the heart patients palpitations.” He shakes his head. “I wake up and wonder where the last twenty fucking years went. How I wasted so much goddamn time...”

“That’s because you’re one of nature’s pessimists. Why don’t you wake up and count your blessings? That Justine and, uh…”

“Ruth.”

“Ruth. Nice name—” It’s his turn to pull a face of wincing remembrance. “—why don’t you focus on how lucky you are that they’re able to look past the fact you’re such a miserable bastard and want to spend time with you?”

He laughs. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“And my personal one.” She takes a sip of her cooling coffee. “Look. It’s easy. Say something like… I’ve been making some changes in my life and I want to be honest about the reasons why.”

He folds his arms. “Nope. Not going to work.”

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t sound like _me_. She’ll probably have me fucking committed.”

“Well, then I can’t help you, Sam! But _don’t_ send her a letter. She’ll have questions, and she deserves you being there with her to answer them.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “You’re probably right…”

* * *

_Dear Ruth, _

_I don’t know how to say this so I’m writing it down—_

No. Too weird. He screws up the notepaper, tries again.

_Dear Ruth, _

_I had a heart attack. Thought you should fucking know—_

This draft has the virtue of making him laugh, at least, before he crumples it into a ball.

_Ruth, _

_I know I should have told you this sooner. But I’ve been so scared of losing you—_

_Way_ too fucking honest. He tears the third sheet of paper in as many minutes out of the notepad.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

He looks up, to where Justine is sitting on the couch, scowling at him over the top of her book. “Nothing.”

“No, you’re tearing up notepad sheets like some sort of lunatic.”

“Fine, fine. I’ve stopped, look.” Cynthia is right, he reluctantly admits to himself. The letter idea is a bust.

“You’re _so_ weird sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got bad news: it’s hereditary.”

She snaps her book shut, rolling her eyes hugely, and disappears into her room in response.

He sighs. She’s been wound tight as a spring since the wrap party. It’s partly worry about what’s going to happen to their movie, in light of events. That he can understand. But some of it he thinks is shame, subverted into a snappish anger at the rest of the world. He recognizes it because he does exactly the same fucking thing. Except in his case, there’s plenty for him to be ashamed _about_.

He needs to talk to her, but he has no idea what to say. That he’s sorry, perhaps. That all men are pigs, himself included. He thinks that’s probably already taken as read. 

He drifts to her closed door, knocking softly. “Hey. Can we talk?”

“I’ve got nothing to say right now,” she calls back, through the wood.

Well, that was predictable. “Alright, fine. Just—just listen for a minute then—”

He almost falls through the door as she wrenches it open, face a mask of rage. “Why? What are you going to say that could possibly make me feel any less shitty? I know this wasn’t my fault! But it still happened. And it will happen, again and again and again, because this is just how the fucking world is! And, you know, it’s not like _you’re_ so much better than those creeps.”

She expects rage in return. Maybe she even wants it. And there’s a version of him that would have given it to her; snippy at being snapped at. He’s still inside somewhere, but his angry howl is muffled by reserves of weary patience he hasn’t noticed he’s been building until this moment.

“Yeah,” he says instead. “I know. Welcome to being an actual adult. It’s the same shit, over and over.”

“Well, it _sucks_.”

“I know. I wish I could pretend it gets easier. Maybe for some people it does; I don’t fucking know.” He sighs. “What I _do_ know is that you have a choice about what you do next.”

“You mean, like, going to college, or—?”

“Well, maybe. I was thinking more like right now. You and me.”

“What are you _talking_ about? For the movie?”

“No! Something new. I bought a – a thing I want to go try out.”

“What? What did you buy?”

He goes and fetches the box from his bedroom, placing it carefully down on the dining room table, drawing her out of her bedroom lair. “What do you think?”

“You bought a video camera?”

“A camcorder. Full size.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s stuff I want to make! And I have the money. It’s the right time. C’mon. What do you say?”

“To _what_? Going outside to wander the streets filming?”

“No. To Rosedale.” He takes in her blank look. “It’s a cemetery.”

Realization dawns. “For your concept reel?”

“Yeah. I, um, I was thinking about pitching it to Debbie. What? I like working. And I know she’s looking for a different kind of show. So…” He shrugs, as if that’s answer enough.

She shakes her head. “Do you even have a plot synopsis?”

His mustache twitches, only half hiding his smile. “I’ll fill you in on the drive over. How’s that sound?” 

She opens her mouth, something like disbelief in her expression. He holds his nerve. This is what he has to offer; what he can do. If she turns him down—

“Fine,” she sighs. “Just let me change my shirt.” She takes in his nonplussed expression. “Continuity? From what we filmed on set?”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Good.”

* * *

“Hey,” says Ruth, unhooking her bag from around her neck. “Sorry, I’m late.”

“It’s fine.” He drags his eyes away from the monitors to press a kiss to her mouth. This being Ruth, his initial intention of quick peck goes somewhat awry. When she breaks the kiss, he finds she’s sitting in his lap in the editor’s chair.

“I missed you too, Sam,” she says, cheeks pinking. “But I didn’t come here to distract you from work…”

“I know, I know.” He steals another kiss, anyway. “You are pretty fucking good at it, though—”

She pulls herself away, taking the assistant’s chair. “Focus.”

“Alright.” He sighs. “So, this is the U-matic, okay? Basically, this is the studio trying to fuck me. It’s shit for film editing because I have to do everything linearly, and I’ve only got ten weeks to stitch this thing together guaranteed by the union…” He sighs again, more deeply this time. “But it’s the standard format for TV editing. So, I figured if nothing else, _you_ could get to grips with it and know what you’re doing heading into post-production on GLOW.” 

“Things are that bad?”

“Well, you know, Jonathan’s trying his best. It’s not over yet. And I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if everything was just going smoothly.” He coughs. “Anyway. I imagine they’ll set you up with an editor but it’s good to know what’s happening with the technology so they can’t…” He stumbles to a halt again, as she pulls out her notebook and pen. “Are you actually going to make notes on what I’m saying?”

“Yeah! I won’t remember everything otherwise.”

“Oh. Oh, Jesus.” He supposes it makes sense, in that regard, but it _feels_ extremely weird. “Okay – alright. First button then. Maybe the most important…”

* * *

They wind up at the drive-in for dinner. Again.

“You know, one day I’d like to take you somewhere fancy for food,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I think we can handle an actual grown-up date.”

Something twists in his chest at the face she makes in response to that; the compressed smile, looking up at him through her lashes. Like it’s a big deal, rather than a basic relationship expectation. “Well, I’d like that,” she says, and kisses him. 

They make-out for a while in the parking lot. Because they can, he supposes. Because they want to. In the back of his mind are Cynthia’s words. _I’ve been making some changes in my life and I want you to know why. _But he’s tired and sad. The taste of her, the way she holds his face, is a balm. And he can’t bear to lose it right now; can’t bear to turn this moment over to anxiety and shame.

“Do you – do you want to come back to my place?” she breathes.

He really shouldn’t. He needs to be back in the editing box early tomorrow, and he knows what he’s like when presented with the option of being in bed with Ruth versus literally anything else. “Yeah,” he says. 

He rings Justine from her apartment, once they arrive. Letting her know he won’t be home this evening. It might look like an inversion of the usual parent – child arrangement, but it’s a way to know she’s home and safe too without risking her ire at being checked-up on.

“Is she doing okay?” asks Ruth, when he puts down the handset.

“I dunno. She’s angry. I mean, I guess that makes sense.”

“Mmm. Like father, like daughter?” she suggests, with a gentle smile.

He takes her in his arms and kisses her again. “Maybe,” he agrees.

And this was not his plan either; to immediately shed their clothes and let her fuck him, hard and desperate. Like they’ve been apart for weeks rather than days. He’s not sure why, though. There can’t be many better uses of his time. And no teenager in the next room means no reason to stifle their noises. Their soft gasps in staccato duet grow louder and louder. They’re probably risking a noise complaint from the neighbors, as she rides out her orgasm, but he’s past the point of caring.

He rolls her onto her back, the bed frame thumping and rattling with each frantic thrust until he finds his own release. Burying his face in her neck when he’s finished, unwilling to let her go. “Jesus _Christ_, Ruth.”

She chuckles, fingers winding into his hair. “You’re not _so_ bad yourself.”

“Aw, thanks.” They stay tangled together, noses and lips tracing the lines of one another’s faces for a while. Until his eyes start to feel heavy-lidded and he rolls off, reconfiguring them into an embrace they might both be able to find sleep in.

“You know, Debbie’s having a dinner party next week,” she says, right when he’s about to drop off. He can feel the sudden tension, the muscles in her stomach under his hand clenching; the catch in her voice. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to come, but… Cherry’s bringing Keith, and Tammé has a date…”

The silence balloons. His first thought is that she was right – he was hardly dinner party company before he got sober, and he’s not more motivated to attend now he can’t anaesthetise himself though the socially awkward parts. And it’s not that their relationship is a secret, but attending a dinner party together as a couple feels almost performative. A declaration of something he’s still so very, very scared of fucking up.

“I dunno,” he says slowly. “I mean, I’m not sure if they’d really appreciate my company.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve been friends with Cherry and Keith longer than me.”

We’re not friends, he almost says. They’re colleagues, peers, collaborators. And yeah, they have each other’s backs. A shared history. But that’s not… That isn’t….

Maybe that _is_ friendship, now he’s actually thinking about it.

“When is it?”

“Next Thursday.”

Fuck it. “Yeah,” he hears himself say. “Alright.”

“Really?”

“If it’s what you want.” He presses a kiss into her hair. “I’m all in.”


	16. The truth will out

He fiddles with the phone cord while he waits for her to pick up, twisting the spiral cable around his finger. She answers on the fifth ring.

“Ruth Wilder speaking—”

“Hey.”

“Sam! Hi.” She sounds happy to hear his voice at least, lifting his heart out of his boots.

“How’s rehearsal going?”

“Good. How’s editing?”

“Getting there. Uh, you free Saturday afternoon?”

“Sure.” The line clicks slightly; he thinks she’s probably moving the ‘phone so she can sit on the bed in her apartment. “You want to… hang out?”

“I could do with a hand moving some furniture,” he replies carefully. “A desk and a bookshelf.”

“And _I’m _the brawniest person you know?”

“Apparently.”

“You know, you _can_ just say you’d like to see me…”

He rolls his eyes even though she can’t see. “Hey, Ruth, I’d like to see you Saturday. Also, there’s bookshelf and a desk I need help to move.”

She laughs. “Fine, I’ll come and help. No Justine?”

“Uh, no. Rosalie’s taking her to look at more colleges….”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” If he was broke before, the prospect of college tuition is _truly_ frightening.

“Well, I’ll come and keep you company. Two o’clock?”

“Aw, thanks,” he says. He means it to come out mockingly, but it sounds worryingly sincere. “You can save all your rehearsal gossip for then.”

“_So_ much gossip.”

“Uh-huh. Looking forward to hearing it.”

“Looking forward to telling it.”

“Bye, Ruth.”

“Bye, Sam.”

* * *

She knocks on the door at three minutes past the hour. He knows damn well she’s been sitting in her car down the street for the past ten. He also knows better than to mention it.

“Hey! Haircut?”

“Mm-hm. Thanks for noticing—” She stops at the sight of this living room. “Woah! Are you… moving out?”

“What? No! I’m just tidying the place up.” It _is_ a bit drastic, now he’s looking at all the boxes, piled high with a lifetime of clutter. Cursed objects ready to strike back through the goodwill. “I just realized I only kept hold of half of this shit to piss Carolyn off. Figured it was probably time to let that go. Plus, uh, there’s this weird _smell_.” It’s been bothering him for the past week; something he can’t seem to find the source of.

She’s giving him a look, like he’s said something particularly stupid. “Of cigarettes?” she says, flatly.

Ah. Because he _is_ that stupid. “I don’t think it was always this bad...”

She merely raises her eyebrows in response. “So, are we going to need to throw all of this out before we move that bookshelf?”

“Well, I don’t think most of it is yard-saleable.”

“I don’t know...” She turns to the nearest box. “I’m sure there’s people who will pay good money for these lovely… um…” He watches her struggle to make sense of his ephemera. “…soap dishes?”

“They’ll have been a fucking wedding present,” he says gloomily. “Let’s, um, see how much of this shit we can cram into my car.” 

Things looks less overwhelming, at least, when they’re loaded into his trunk and the back seats, ready for the junk yard.

“Last box!” she calls, making her way down the driveway with a box of yellowing papers in arms. Ancient press cuttings; letters from his divorce lawyer; old bills and parking fines. 

“Ah. That one I think I’m going to fucking _burn_—” he starts, and the bottom of the overladen box gives way, scattering paper everywhere. 

“Shit! I’m sorry!”

“Not your fault,” he sighs. They work quickly to gather up the documents before they blow away. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her reach for a paper and then hesitate. Her fingers hovering over the folded piece, headed with neat green lettering.

“Um. Are you sure all of this is for throwing away…?” 

“Pretty sure,” he says, coming over to look. “Why, what have you found?”

> _Your payment is due: **April 28th 1986**_
> 
> _**Account Detail**: Samuele Francis Sylvia **Hospital ID:** NCC1701D_
> 
> ** _Summary of Patient Services:_ **
> 
> _**Emergency Care:** $2,618_
> 
> _**Radiology:** $5,087_

“I’m sorry,” she says, as he reads. “I didn’t mean to pry, I just…” She licks her lips. “You had an accident?”

He takes the paper out of her unresisting fingers. “Uh, not exactly.”

“What did they… X-ray?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. Trying to make it seem like she’s just casually interested, like it doesn’t really matter to her. And he could still lie. This is not the way he wanted to do this. He could pretend the bill is for a minor scrape, or—or—

“Uh, my chest.” He swallows. “Ruth, will you… um, will you come inside?”

She looks about as stricken as he feels. “S-Sure,” she nods. Following him back into the house to stand awkwardly in his living room. 

“You, you might want to sit down.”

“Oh, God.” She closes her eyes briefly, but stays on her feet. “Sam… What—?”

“I have a heart arrythmia,” he blurts out. Aware he’s making this much more dramatic than it wants or needs to be; fresh out of ideas at to how to calm them both down.

“What does that mean?”

His trembling fingers find the token in his pocket. Turning it round and round. “Damage,” he says. “Changing the way that it beats.”

She lets out a shaking breath. Relief, he thinks. What was she imagining, he wonders, that could be worse than this? “Is that why you – why you’ve gotten sober? Quit cigarettes?”

“Yeah,” he says. Maybe this is easier than he thought it was going to be. “I mean, the irony is that I’d started doing a lot of that shit before it happened—”

“Before what happened? Your visit to the ER?”

Fuck. He’s forgotten that effect follows cause; the truth in green and white that’s precipitated him finally coming clean with this. And she’s looking at him, pale and scared, her blue eyes wide, and he doesn’t want to lie to her. That’s one of the many odd things about Ruth, in comparison to every other woman he’s ever loved. Or even liked. Tolerated. He doesn’t _want_ the layers of protective bullshit between them; the armor of his cranky asshole self that he’s built up over decades of disappointment and heartbreak. When they’re honest, things work.

Except of course, when they don’t. In his mind’s eye they’re standing on the street outside Boardner’s bar. A fact of the matter, somehow both his own fucking fault _and_ something over which he has very little control, is lying between them. 

“I had a heart attack,” he says. “The day we sold Justine’s script.”

What little color was left in her face drains away. “You—_what_—?” She covers her mouth with her hand for a moment. Holding in a sob, he thinks. “A heart attack?”

“Yeah.”

He realizes he is holding his breath. It feels like the world around them is too; paused for a long, long moment as Ruth tries to figure out how to react.

“Oh, my God, Sam! Why didn’t you _tell_ me—?"

“Well, we weren’t even talking—”

“I know but… in the whole almost year since then, there hasn’t been a moment where you’ve thought it might be worth _mentioning_?”

“Of course there’s been fucking moments! But it’s not exactly an easy thing to say!”

“So, if I hadn’t seen that letter you were going to, what? Just never mention it to me?”

“No! No, I’ve been trying to work out how to tell you for _months_—”

“With who? Justine?”

“No! And she doesn’t know about the heart attack part, alright? So, don’t fucking tell—”

“_Jesus_, Sam! That’s what you’re thinking about right now? More lies?”

“It’s not lying!” he snaps back. “I just… don’t know how to say it, alright?”

She squeaks with rage. In other circumstances it might even be funny. Not right now. “Lying by omission is still lying, Sam!”

“Alright! Okay! I lied! I’m sorry! I mean, it’s not like last time I told the truth you handled it with grace and goddamn dignity—”

There are tears in her eyes now, and not ones of sympathy. “Oh, so this is _my_ fault?”

“I didn’t fucking say that!”

“No, you just implied—!”

“Jesus Christ, Ruth! Could this not be all about you for five fucking seconds?”

His stomach drops, as her mouth thins into a stony line; as she blinks in shock. That’s it, the thing that’s broken it. She makes a noise of almost _disgust_ and turns on her heel to storm towards the door.

“Oh, right, fine. Fuck off then,” he hears himself say, as she works the lock. Voice thick with tears of his own. “I mean, maybe people would have less difficulty being honest with you, Ruth, if you didn’t fucking flounce out of the room every time you hear something you don’t like!”

He sees her flinch, as those words hit home, but she doesn’t turn back around. She just opens the door and stalks away, into the incongruously sunny Californian afternoon.

* * *

He knocks on the door. The white paint is peeling, dusting the doorstep like dandruff even as he raps on the wood. It’s been a while, a long while, counted in plastic sobriety tokens, since he’s found himself here.

But there’s one place that welcomes any man when they’re on the way down to rock bottom— 

A man opens the door, dressed smartly in a button-down shirt. Frowning quizzically at Sam; almost battering down the side door. “Can I help you?”

“I don’t know,” Sam replies. “Look, you probably don’t fucking remember, but you were the speaker in the first meeting I ever went to, and you said—”

“—that anyone in danger of a relapse, anyone without a friend or sponsor, could come to Saint Michael’s at any time and find a listening ear.” 

“Yeah.”

The man nods. “Come inside.”

Sam follows him, into the church caretaker’s office. From the looks of things, it’s also where the man lives. “I’m sorry, I forgot your name.” 

“Patrick,” says the caretaker. He extends a callused hand for Sam to shake, his shirt cuffs not quite covering the tattoos that curl down to his wrists. “It’s… Sam, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m just getting the community center ready for tonight’s chess club meeting. Do you mind if we talk and sweep?”

“No,” says Sam, and Patrick smiles and hands him a broom.

* * *

There are three meetings within driving distance of one another that night, and he goes to all of them. Cynthia finds him at the final one, looking a little harried. Summoned, he suspects, rather than there by coincidence. He doesn’t care. He sits in his hard-plastic chair, leg jiggling as he fails to listen to the twenty other fuck-ups sharing their sad stories tonight, holding the token in his pocket so tightly it’s cutting into his hand.

“I think I’ve lost her,” he says to her, when the sharing part is finally over for everyone else, and he can corner her over coffee and make this all about him. “Ruth. I think she’s gone for good.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I fucked up telling her about my heart attack. She found a hospital bill and suddenly it was all about me lying by omission and she took off and—”

“—and you went and found Patrick.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You didn’t use drugs or alcohol.”

“No.”

“You did the right thing.”

He deflates slightly. “I mean, I guess.”

“Do you feel like you’re going to use now?”

He thinks about it. “No.” He’s not sure what he’s going to do instead; going home doesn’t hold much appeal. But neither does oblivion, anymore. “Fuck.” 

She smiles, and for the first time he sees how _tired_ she is. “I think that means the program is working for you.”

He sighs. “Yeah. Maybe.” Tapping his fingers on the table. “Is, uh, is everything alright with you…?”

* * *

He drives, aimlessly, in the hours after. Home the very long way round. His car is still full of the shit they loaded up for the junkyard, which feels like a metaphor for something. Only he’s not sure what. He feels hollowed out; invisible. A ghost in a beat-up Cadillac, haunting what used to be his life.

It’s strange to see the house dark when he pulls up outside. He’s gotten used to Justine burning the midnight oil, typing furiously in the living room when he arrives back from the studio. That too, will end soon, he reminds himself. In the fall when the college semester starts, she’ll be gone too. Maybe he _should_ move house. Too many fucking memories in the bricks and mortar of this one, never mind all the nicotine.

Movement catches his eyes, on the porch. Something lumpish and out of place, covered in a green blanket. He steps out of the car, half tempted to take the tire iron with him to further investigate. It’s a person. A homeless guy, fills in his brain, which makes no fucking sense.

It’s Ruth. Huddled up against the evening chill; clearly having been sat outside for a while. “Are you fucking crazy?” he says. “It’s almost two am.”

“I—I know—”

“I’m amazed no one called the cops on you. How long have you been sitting here?”

“A while. I wasn’t sure where you’d gone. When – if you’d be coming back.”

He folds his arms. “I went to an AA meeting. Three of ‘em actually.”

“Really? Three?” She tries a smile, but it’s definitely too soon for disarmament.

“What do you want, Ruth?” he scowls.

“To talk?”

He grits his teeth. A large part of him wants to say no. To throw his own toys out of the pram now; to hurt her in return. Is that the kind of man he really is? The kind of man he wants to be?

“Fine,” he says instead, opening the door and letting her back inside. “Let's fucking talk.”


	17. Honestly

Ruth walks over to the window, the blanket still a cape around her shoulders. She looks out, at her bloodless reflection, pale in the glass, and then turns to face him. Ever the flair for the dramatic. They’re about two paces apart rather than the customary twenty, but it feels like the formal opening of hostilities.

“Do you – do you want to go first?” she asks.

“No.”

She bites her lip, considering. “Me neither,” she says. An awkward almost chuckle. 

He doesn’t smile back, regarding her coldly from his position near the door. “Ruth… I can’t keep doing this. It’s like walking through a field of landmines. It’s exhausting—”

“Oh, because _I’m_ the one that blows up without warning?”

“I didn’t— look, I know I’m not a fucking saint. Alright? But I can’t win with you. I tell you the truth and you won’t talk to me; you find out something you didn’t know about me, and you run away!”

“I don’t want you to lie to me.”

“But you don’t always want the truth, either—”

“Because I’m scared, Sam!” She looks almost shocked at the words that have fallen out of her mouth, considering, and then committing to the truth. “I am … _so_ goddamn scared.”

He swallows. “Of what? Of me?” His stomach clenches unpleasantly, wondering just quite how badly she thinks of him “So, what, you think I’m the kind of guy who’ll knock you about or—?”

“No! I think you’re a – you’re a landslide Sam! Whenever I finally feel like we’ve found solid ground you pull it out from under my feet! You know I trust you, and you – you humiliate me. Or you turn out to be hiding something. Or you just _disappear_—!” 

“That’s not—” cuts in his automatic self-defense circuitry. But it _is_, really. If he’s honest with himself about it. He coughs. His Adam’s apple seems to have swollen, several times too large now for his throat. Hard to force the words out. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to humiliate you, Ruth. And God knows I don’t want to hide things from you. Not anymore. I am… I am as honest with you as I know how to be. And that scares the fuck out of me too. You know, usually when I trust someone it turns out to be a big fucking mistake. Sooner or later.”

“Yeah,” she says, looking down at her feet. “I – I know…”

There is silence for a time, as he stares at her. “So, what do we do now?” he says eventually. Maybe it was only to make her look at him again. Those big blue eyes, swimming with unshed tears. Enough to drown in.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs, like he’s ready for whatever answer she can give. “Is it—is this it?” His shaking voice betrays him.

“I don’t know. Is that what you want? For this to be… over?”

“Ruth, you’re the one who stormed out.” There are tears in his own eyes now; fucking ridiculous. “You know, I woke up this morning hoping you were going to stick around long enough that I could take you out for dinner. I didn’t — I don’t want—_fuck_." He can’t bear the distance between them any longer; the idea that it could stretch between them permanently. He strides over to her, taking her shoulders in his hands. “Can we fix this? Please, Ruth? Can we just…?"

She nods again, tears caught in her eyelashes now, the blanket slipping from around her neck. “I want to. I want to.” Her hands are on his neck, touching his face. “It’s just, it’s _hard_— I—”

They kiss. That desperate, seeking kind that’s almost a habit for them. Always on the edge of the catastrophe curve; one step from disaster. He wonders what it might be like to step away. To hold her in his arms _without_ the nagging worry that this might be the very last time—

“I want you to be honest with me,” she gasps, breaking the kiss and pressing her head to his. “Can you – can you do that?”

“Honest about what?”

“About everything,” she says. “All of it. The good, the bad. Even the things you’re scared about me knowing.”

It’s a hell of an ask. “Ruth, I—”

“And I’ll do the same! I’ll do the same,” she continues. Pressing her lips to his again briefly, almost feverishly. “I’ll be honest about anything. Everything! Whatever you want to know about me, you can – you can have.”

“Really?”

“_Yes_.”

He withdraws, as far as the end of her nose. “I’m not sure that I believe you.”

She swallows. “Then ask me something. Anything—”

“Did you fuck Russell because you wanted to make me jealous?”

A shocked, sharp little intake of breath at where his line of questioning starts. “No,” she says. “I think I… wanted to put something between you and me. And, I liked him. You know, he was sweet and kind and—”

“Alright, okay. You’ve answered the question, you don’t have to give me _all_ the fucking details.”

She laughs at that, in spite of everything. “Does it matter?”

“Does what matter?”

“Russell.”

“No. I don’t give a shit about who you used to date.”

He’d rather not think about them together, but the past is another country as far as he’s concerned. He doesn’t begrudge her the places she’s traveled before him. And besides – pushing _that_ metaphor as far as it will go – he’s got an itinerary of his own, long as his leg, and half of which he doesn’t fully fucking remember… 

She’s wrinkling her nose, skeptical. “Really?”

“I mean, as long as you’re not dating any of them right now.”

“No, I’m… This is more than complicated enough for me.”

“Good.”

She runs her hand through his hair. It sends an odd sort of shiver down the back of his neck that earths itself in his heels. “Can you tell me what happened? When you – when you had the heart attack?”

He sighs. “We were going to different studios. At first, I thought it was just… you know, just fucking _stress_. That sweaty, anxious feeling?” She nods her understanding. “And then… I dunno. We were in this meeting… and I could feel this weird sort of electricity in my arm and this, this pain in my chest. Like nothing else I’ve ever…” And the _dread_, he remembers. Most of all, that sense of impending doom; of everything unraveling. The sky pressing down and the earth pressing up. Out of time, Sam Sylvia. Thanks for playing, now the game is over… “And I just fucking knew.”

“What did you do? How did Justine not—?”

“I sent her home. Told her to go celebrate with Billy.”

“When you thought you were _dying_?” She’s staring at him like he’s grown an extra head.

“Yeah. I mean, I told her I loved her. And that I was… fucking proud.” 

“_Why_?”

He blinks, surprised at such an obvious question. “Because I do. I am—”

“No, I mean, why did you send her away?”

“Have you ever watched someone die, Ruth?”

She shakes her head, pale and serious now. “No. Not—not in the same room.”

“Well, I have. And afterwards… Afterwards, I could never get the corpses out of my head. You know? The way they look when they’re just… a shell.” And in some cases, the transition between the two, he doesn’t say. That indignity of dying; of consciousness fading and a body becoming just that. He’s seen it come fast and he’s seen it come slow and it’s always been ugly. “It invaded every fucking memory I had. That moment – that, that _body_… became what they were to me. And I didn’t want Justine to have that. Plus, you know, I was scared out of my fucking mind. I probably cried. I didn’t want her seeing that, either.”

She looks almost stricken. Maybe it’s a little heavy, but she did _ask_. “I… I think I get it,” she says.

He hopes she doesn’t, to be honest. “Well, now you know.”

She nods. “And… you’re better now?”

“Eh, mostly.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“It means the damage is done, Ruth. The arrhythmia’s permanent. And if I have another one… that’s probably if for me.”

He _feels_ her breath hitch, her chest pressed against his as they cling to one another. Her voice, though, is still steady. Practical and sensible Ruth again. “Hence the getting sober,” she says.

“Yeah. No booze. No blow.” He sighs. “No fucking cigarettes. Eating healthily and exercising. For as long as I have left.”

She considers this. “I mean, there are _worse_—"

“No, no… Well, alright, maybe for _you_ there are worse punishments. I’d have done two, maybe three out of five, given a choice. All of them at once has been… fucking ridiculous.” 

“But… You did it.”

He looks down at her, smiling up at him.

“So far. One day at a time.” 

Always, forever, one day at a time.

* * *

Sunlight, streaming through the sitting room window, wakes him.

His unsticks his cheek from the arm of the couch, squinting at the wall clock. He can’t quite make out the time without his glasses, but he thinks it’s a little after ten. Maybe.

He could move, and find out, but he doesn’t want to shift Ruth, asleep on top of him.

(_They talked until the sun came up, and after. The tension gradually draining, as realization dawns that they’ve been present for what he certainly fucking _hopes_ are the biggest bumps in their respective lives. __The destruction of Debbie’s marriage and associated fall out. Finding out he has a teenager daughter._

_“Do you think there are any more?” _

_“What? Children I don’t know about?” _

_“Yeah!” _

_“Jesus. I hope not. What? Why are you making _that_ face? I don’t have the monopoly on poor decision making in the heat of the moment here.” _

_She closes her mouth, conceding the point. “What about… criminal records?” _

_He rolls his eyes. “No warrants outstanding.” She continues to look askance, and he heaves a sigh. “Oh, what do you think, Ruth? Misdemeanors relating to hookers, booze, blow, and my proximity thereto.” _

_She swallows. “I mean, I got a speeding ticket once—” _

_“Are you fucking kidding me?”_

_She bites her lip. “Maybe a little—”)_

Ruth sighs softly, bringing him back into the now. “Hey,” he says. “You awake?”

She opens one blue eye. “Well, I am _now_.”

He laughs, rubbing his hand over her back. “You know, I do have a bed. If you’re still feeling… sleepy.”

“I’m aware.” She kisses him, long and slow. “Are you… sleepy?”

“No,” he replies, “not really.”

He loses himself to her mouth for a time, holding her tight against him, underneath the horrible blanket—

The sound of the front door opening cuts through the hazy softness of their embrace, just a second too late to extract themselves with any dignity.

“Oh, my _God_!” says Justine, spinning on her heel so she doesn’t have to look at them. “Could you maybe get a room?”

“Technically, this is my room,” he grouses, as Ruth scrambles to sit upright and put some respectable distance between them. “I didn’t think you were back until Sunday afternoon, anyway.”

“It is Sunday afternoon,” she says. “Are you guys high?”

“Very fucking funny. So, hey, did you decide which college you want to bankrupt me by attending or what—?” The question is directed at her retreating back, as she heads into the kitchen to make coffee.

“No!” she calls. “But I think it’s between NYU and USC!”

“Great…”

Ruth catches his eye. “I should get going,” she says, in that stage-whisper way she has when she’s trying and failing to be subtle.

He folds his fingers around hers. “Stay,” he says. “I’ll make breakfast.”

“I don’t want to be in the way if—”

“You’re not. Honestly.”

She smiles, slowly, and nods. Honestly. It's new on them, for sure. But he thinks; he hopes; they can make it work. “Okay." 

"Alright?"

"For breakfast.”

He can’t help but steal another kiss, in the seconds before Justine returns—

“Oh, my God, again?! I’m going to start putting fucking _bromide_ in the coffee...”


	18. Presidential summit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be verging on an E rating at the end, just FYI...

He nods his hello as she opens her apartment door, kicking up his chin like they’re meeting on the street. “How’s it going?”

Her newly shortened hair is flyaway static, he suspects from the number of times she’s run her hands through it. The remains of a frown creases between her eyebrows. “Well, you know,” she says mildly, trying to play off her obvious frustration. 

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No, no…”

She’s extremely reticent to share any of _GLOW 2.0_ with him, but in their brave new world of communicating like actual adults, he at least knows the reasons why. He doesn’t _agree_ with them, of course, but that’s a separate issue. Her version of the show means she doesn’t want to second-guess herself over any input from him. Which also leads to moments like this, where she’s fussing over putting away her notes and something that looks like an actual fucking _diorama_ of their new set before he can see it.

“You know, you don’t have to hide all that shit, Ruth. I understand what no means. I’m not going to pry.”

“I know, I know.” She continues to hide the evidence anyway. “I’m pretty sick of looking at it myself, to be honest. It would be nice to… pretend it doesn’t exist for a few hours!”

“Mm-hm,” he returns, skeptical.

Something about his unusually chipper demeanor seems to cut through her distraction at last. “You seem in a good mood, anyway.”

“I am in a good mood. Jonathan got the project back. _Hollywood Loser’s Club_ is under his full control.”

“What does that… mean?”

“Well, one thing it means is that I get an editor and time in the cutting room. No more fucking U-matic hashing shit together.”

“That’s great!”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “I mean, Jonathan’s whole fucking career now rides on us not bombing at the box office, and Justine’s still not even speaking to him… But, you know, at least _I’m_ happy.”

She laughs. “We should go out and celebrate.”

“Yeah, no. I mean, we can do that.”

“But…?”

“There’s something else I want to show you first.” He produces the VHS tape from his jacket pocket. “And I want your honest opinion, alright?”

“Okay. Play away…”

He turns on her little TV and puts the tape into the VCR while she settles on her bed to watch. “Is it scary?” she asks, folding a cushion into her arms.

“No, no.” He presses play on the remote and comes to sit next to her.

Ominous synth music plays, background quiet, as the scene fades in from black. They’re looking at Justine, moving cautiously down a darkened high school corridor, a wooden stake in hand. “I thought the worst part of moving town was going to be dealing with the jocks and prom queens at my new school,” she says, in voice over. The scene cuts rapidly in time with the humming synth. Justine in an empty classroom. Pulling open a desk drawer to find, amongst the textbooks and chalk, an ancient grimoire. Now she’s stalking across a dark parking lot, book in arms. Casting a look left, right. Missing the figure that watches her from the shadows—

Ruth’s mouth twitches, recognizing him in a ridiculous long overcoat, almost a cape.

The shot shifts to Justine sneaking between the tombs in an impressively Gothic cemetery. “But it turns out, in this new place...? It’s a hell of a lot worse than that.”

Ruth blinks as a loud guitar riff, courtesy of one of Justine’s punk bands that he refuses to learn the name of, cuts in. A wizened and gnarled hand, the fingers witch-claws stained with earth and blood, falls onto her shoulder. It’s his own, inside a prop glove he spent a genuinely happy few hours reminding himself how to make. On screen Justine spins, raising her stake. Viewed from the perspective of her would-be-attacker. But not scared; not screaming. Instead her face is a mask of righteous anger, and she brings the wood down hard, presumably in a killing blow—

The screen bursts into blood-splattered main titles:

_Van Helsing High School_

_Drama. Detention… Demons._

The tape turns to static and he presses the stop button. “So? What d’you think?”

She can’t quite contain her grin. “I think … I think it’s brilliant. I mean it’s you, and it’s Justine, and—”

“And you, Ruth. You gave me the whole fucking idea for it.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” she demurs. “Anyway, you need a better tagline. What was it? Drama—?”

“—detention, demons.”

“Hmm. Something about it just doesn’t—” 

“Yeah, I know, I know, but I had to put _something_ on the fucking tape while I still had the machine.”

“We can fix it, we can fix it! Just let me think for a minute.” She catches his eye. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, something.”

“I just… miss this.”

Her nose twitches. “Really?”

“Yeah. Don’t you?” Perhaps it’s terribly selfish of him, to want this part of her as well as all the others. 

“Maybe,” she admits. “Sometimes. Why don’t you talk to Debbie about it on Thursday?”

Dinner. Right. He’d forgotten about agreeing to that, in the wake of their weekend drama. “I dunno—”

“Sam, c’mon! We could be working at the same network. Getting lunch together. Hanging out with the other directors—”

“Christ. You make it sound like high school.” Which she loved; he reminds himself.

“Well, maybe it is a little,” she confesses. “Is that so bad?”

Sometimes, their attraction to one another is _truly_ a mystery to him. “Mmm, I’ll… I’ll think about it.” 

She sighs but knows him well enough to park the issue for now. “Do you want to go over the plans?”

“Plans? For what? Going to a fucking dinner party?”

“I just – I just meant – you know, do you want to pick me up from here, or do you want to meet at your place, or—?”

“I don’t care.” He puts his arm around her shoulders. “Where do _you_ want to meet, Ruth?”

"I think... here..." she says, and he kisses her before she can overthink things any further. 

* * *

“Oh, God,” he says, as he applies the parking brake. “Here we go, then. Dinner with the President…”

Ruth rolls her eyes good-naturedly in the passenger seat. She’s wearing a floral-patterned dress he’s certain she’s either borrowed or bought very recently for this occasion. She doesn’t look bad in it – although admittedly as far as he’s concerned she’d look good in a trash bag, and even better out of one – but it’s so far from her usual style it feels like a costume. “It’ll be fun,” she says, as Keith and Cherry pull up next to their car. “Shall we?”

“I guess we have to…”

He steps out of the car, tucking his shirt into the back of his pants, and nodding a greeting to Keith and Cherry.

The two men fall into step a few paces behind their respective partners. “You been here before?” Sam asks.

“Only once. Dropping Cherry off, before their big road trip.”

“Yeah, same…”

“Are you… nervous?” Keith asks, bemused.

“No,” he says, too quickly. “I mean, it’s just Debbie, right?”

“Right. Just Debbie. She’s only all of our boss now. Uh, present company excluded.” 

And even he’s looking to pitch for employment, Sam thinks glumly. “Hey, I used to be your boss.”

“Yeah,” Keith agrees, as they reach the front door. “But, you know, you never really acted like it...”

Sam sighs, shaking his head. But the time for bitter reflection on his failure to really _ever_ command much authority is lost, as Debbie opens the front door to her castle and welcomes them graciously inside.

* * *

He can hear another explosion of laughter from the table. It’s reached that point of the evening, or perhaps more accurately the bottom of enough bottles of wine, that almost everything is funny to everyone but Sam.

He’s taken himself outside for a break, away from those invitingly grippable bottles. He’s _never_ done this kind of thing sober before, he realizes—

The sounds of the screen door sliding disrupts his reverie before he can really build up steam. He turns, expecting Ruth come to find him. Instead it's Debbie, a cigarette already halfway to her mouth, clearly not expecting to find him lurking in the shadows of her deck.

“Hey,” he says.

She flinches hard but recovers quickly. “Sam. What are you… what are you doing out here?”

“I came out for some air.”

“Well, I came out for a smoke, so…” She fumbles her lighter, the cylinder wobbling as she talks around it. “I’d offer you one, but—”

“I quit.”

She looks unconvinced, as the end of her cigarette glows red-hot. “Yeah. Ruth said.”

A more gracious host might therefore have avoided lighting up next to him, he thinks. But it’s not like _he’d_ have given a shit, in his previous life, so maybe this is just some sort of karmic justice. He tries not to breathe deep the passive smoke like the addict he will always, always be. 

“So,” he says instead, “how’s Randy doing after the whole… head banging thing?”

“He’s fine.”

She’s looking at him now like he’s an equation she has to solve, which is fucking disconcerting. “What?”

“No, I’m just… surprised you remembered his name.”

“Oh, come on! I’m not a complete idiot.”

Nor did he didn’t realize his stock was so low with Debbie. She’s been charming and funny throughout their meal together. Only now does he realize that almost all her stories were told in tandem with Ruth; occasionally Cherry. Tales from their road trip to recover Carmen; the trials and tribulations from various sets at _Bash Howard TV_ or whatever the fuck it’s actually called. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, taking the cigarette out of her mouth for a moment to flick away ash. “I don’t know why I—”

“Debbie, I don’t fucking care. You know, one of the things I’ve always liked about you is the total lack of bullshit. And I also know what it’s like to be the person fifty fucking others are all looking to, for solutions to problems that shouldn’t even exist in the first place. So, you know. Who gives a fuck, right?” 

She raises her eyebrows, considering. Maybe she thinks his words are braggadocio; him needing to try and level the playing field between them even though these days they're playing in vastly different leagues. It’s not, but—

“Yeah,” she says, blowing smoke. To his relief, there’s apparently still enough of a thread of understanding between them. “It is… exhausting. Even with Ruth. And Cherry. And sometimes even Bash.”

He knows better than to offer her advice, although part of him wonders if he should tell her he’s standing here as a horrible warning. Where a growing lack of patience and reliance on nicotine and other substances to self-medicate through the frustration will lead. _You end up here_, he wants to say, not for the first time. It’s a price he can’t recommend paying. 

“Was it to win Ruth back?” she asks, before he can find the right words. 

“Was _what_ to win Ruth back?”

She stares out over the manicured garden of her immaculate new home, avoiding his eyes. “The whole… sober thing,” she says, waving a hand vaguely.

“Not really.” He finds he is rubbing his own hand across his mustache. Poor substitute for the compulsion of putting a cigarette in his mouth, but apparently his fingers still need to be near his face. “I don’t think it hurt, though.”

More silence stretches between them, not exactly uncomfortable. “She seems… happy. Finally.”

“I hope so.” He coughs to clear the awkward frog in his throat. “You know, she wouldn’t even be here if you weren’t.”

Debbie shakes her magnificent head. “Well, you’re the one who actually got her to speak to me again, so… Yeah."

There’s probably a word for this feeling in another language, he thinks. Like _schadenfreude_ or _l'esprit de l'escalier_. A simple way to name the connection between the two of them through Ruth. Their concord; the mutual non-compete clause that hangs unspoken. Debbie loves Ruth and Sam loves Ruth, and an inevitable consequence of that is their ongoing presence like this in one another’s lives. There are worse feelings, he decides.

He waits while Debbie finishes her cigarette and, together, they step back inside.

* * *

“I like Raymond. Don’t you like Raymond? I think he’s so nice, with Tammé…”

And this, too, he thinks, is a new experience. Ruth is… not drunk, but certainly tipsy, leaning into him as they walk down Debbie’s driveway. “Yeah, he seems okay,” he replies. In fairness, the guy did a pretty good job holding his own at their table. Charming and funny without managing to come across like an ass. He wonders, briefly, what Raymond made of him. That he’s a morose old bastard, probably— 

“Well, I had a great time,” Ruth continues, happily oblivious. “Did – did you?”

“It was fine, Ruth.”

They’ve reached the car. To his surprise she puts both her arms around his neck, kissing him clumsily. She tastes of white wine, a hint of acid sharp against his tongue, as she presses herself into him with artless arousal. “Do you want to—?" she whispers.

“Yes,” he says. Suddenly, sharply, he very much wants to. Against the fucking car right now if he could. He kisses her again, more urgently this time. “Your place?”

“Mm-hm.” 

The roads, at least, are quiet at this time of night. His hand seems to have found her bare knee as they pull away, the hemline of her dress riding up as she plugs in her seat belt. He’s got mixed feelings about the flowery dress, if he’s really honest. There’s something vaguely reminiscent of the poodle skirts of his youth in the line of it, and she is very pretty in it. It’s titillating for sure, but it also freights a nagging sense that he really _is_ a dirty old man, when she looks this young and… wholesome. The Ruth of _his_ wildest dreams, he’s slightly scared to realize, probably arrives in a shapeless brown sweater; the bulk of his fantasy comprising getting her _out_ of it and down to nothing more than her smile—

She puts her hand on top of his. Guiding him upwards from her knee as he drives, grinning wicked.

“Fuck.” He digs his fingers into her thigh. He was half hard already, ridiculous as that is, just from the press of her kiss. Now there’s a discernible tent in his jeans and she’s reaching for his zipper—

He knocks the indicator, pulling them over onto a residential street off Sunset Boulevard before he crashes the fucking car. In the convenient penumbra between two streetlights he presses his face to hers, stupidly desperate, and lets his hands work up under her dress. Stroking across her thighs, his thumb brushing between her legs. It was and remains a thrill to find her wet for him. But her hands are busy too, freeing him from his pants. His cock springs into her hand, and he so badly wants to fuck her, here and now, but the seats are in the wrong place and the steering wheel—

She presses him back into his chair, keeping him in hand. “Sit still,” she commands. Unusually stern, more like Zoya than Ruth, if he’s honest. He needs to unpick the spike of arousal _that _thought drives through him at a later time. He nods, and lets out an involuntary groan as she lowers her head.

And they’re probably going to get arrested, he thinks, in the moment while he still can. This looks like quite a decent neighborhood and she’s blowing him in the front seat of his car—

She takes him deeper into her mouth, moving up and down the length of him, and quite suddenly he doesn’t care about anything other than Ruth very much at all. He thinks he says her name, maybe a few times for good measure, and comes fast and shocked down her throat.


	19. Anything's Possible

He forgets sometimes, how small she is compared to him. She takes up so much of his brain space it’s a shock to be reminded that, in reality, she’s pretty tiny. Small enough for him to see his face over her head in the bathroom mirror, as they brush their teeth together before bed. Partners in a scene he’s never _dared_ picture. A casual intimacy, a comfortableness even, lying easy between them. How’s _that_ for fucking unexpected?

He watches her reflection. The way she attends to the most mundane chore with such fierce concentration; he thinks he used to find it unbearable. Now he’s trying to figure it out. The efficiency, the order she’s established, for something as straightforward as cleaning her goddamn teeth…

She catches his eye and smiles at him. As much as she _can_ smile with a mouth full of minty foam, anyway, before she spits into the sink and rinses out her mouth, unselfconscious. All her usual hesitancy and stutter is dissolved; she pats her face dry with a towel and practically _struts_ back to her bedroom. Maybe it’s the wine, he thinks, as he finishes his own ablutions. Or maybe just the power she’s discovered, over him; the ability to turn him into a fucking idiot with something as simple as putting his hand on her thigh. Maybe it’s a little of both.

He likes it, he decides. He wants it. Following her into bed, he trials a kiss. Things could go either way. A soft goodnight before they sleep, or something more R rated—

She presses her tongue into his mouth and her body against his. His left hand she lets wander up, under her shirt. She takes hold of his right and thrusts it into her panties. That’ll be option two then, he thinks.

* * *

He opens his eyes to the grey before the dawn. Ruth is in his arms, and he’s so desperate for a piss it feels like his bladder is about to fucking explode.

He winces, trying to extract himself without waking her. It’s damn near impossible. Ruth seems to instinctively seek out another occupant in bed. He’s not sure they’ve even made double digits yet, in terms of times they’ve actually closed eyes, laid down and _slept_ together, but every time she’s cast an arm around him, a leg. Burrowed deep into his embrace without consciously being aware of it. It is — to use a word he doesn’t much — adorable. But it also makes these old man bladder moments an awkward test of gymnastic ability. 

He manages to slide out of bed in the end, escaping into her bathroom to relieve himself with an audible groan. He turns, intending to head straight back to the warm softness of pillows and blankets and Ruth, but a splash of color in the mirror makes him pause. The Sam looking back at him is about as sheepish as he is to find a purpling hickey bloomed on his neck; another down near his hip—

“Oh,” he hears her sigh from the other room, as he rubs his fingers over the marks she’s gifted him. Right on cue, and suitably over dramatic. “Ow, my head...”

His mustache twitches, hiding his smile. He opens the cupboard and of course there’s a packet of Advil where you’d expect to find it. He fills an empty glass with water and takes her the pills. Sliding back under the covers as she gulps them down, arm snaking around her to pull her back against him once she’s put down the water.

“Oh, God,” she says, slumping against his chest. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Hmm.” He rubs his thumb over the base of her neck, pressing a kiss into her hair. “I mean, there are some benefits.”

She stiffens as she realizes quite what she’s said. “I’m sorry. That was… thoughtless, and—”

“Ruth, shut up.”

She manages thirty-two seconds. He counts them down his head as he continues to massage the base of her skull, where he thinks the headache might be. “What time is it?”

“I dunno. Early.”

“When do you have to leave for set?”

“I don’t. It’s a day off for me. I was kind of hoping we might get to spend it together.” His breath catches, as he suddenly realizes the vulnerability of this statement. “And if not, I’ve got shit to do with the last of that junk from clearing out my place… so... Yeah.”

Her fingers skirt the edge of the bruise she’s left near his hip. “Well, I don’t want to stop you from finishing the clear out…”

He grits his teeth. Fucking typical, that his attempt at self-preservation has become the seed of his own destruction. “No,” he backtracks. “I mean, it’s fine. I can - you know - another time…”

He stops, sighs, and leans down to kiss her instead. It might be safer, in the long run, than trying to talk. To his relief she returns the kiss, long and slow and lazy. They taste of sleep, and he can smell the sweat of last night’s lovemaking, turning musky on their skin. She doesn’t seem to give any more of a fuck about it than he does. Rolling on top of him to find a better fit for her mouth, her body against his, instead. He’s more than halfway hard again, which he would have put down as improbable in the extreme even two minutes ago. “Christ, Ruth. I love you like this,” he sighs, his hands moving over her hips—

Her breath catches; they’re so entwined he feels it in his own throat. For a long moment he doesn’t connect his words to her reaction, wondering stupidly instead why she’s suddenly stopped kissing him. Until his ears nudge his brain. Fuck. _Those_ words. She’s said them to him once, in this room, the morning after she moved in. And not again since. And he wasn’t even _thinking_ in romantic terms, he wants to yell. Just marveling at how fucking easy this all feels; at the frankly miraculous effect of her body on his. Of course, daring to call attention to the fact has now fucked everything up.

She’s withdrawn to the end of his nose, looking serious, if slightly blurred by proximity and the lack of his glasses. He sighs again. “Look, Ruth… If we’re really doing this whole honesty trip, I’m going to wind up saying it sometimes. It doesn’t matter to me if you can’t—”

“Yes, it _does_. I don’t know why it’s not easy for me to say too. I— ” She swallows. “I feel it.”

He nods. “I know. I can tell.”

“Really?”

He’s surprised at his own dry mouth; his racing heart. Maybe it’s just a fucking palpitation, he thinks. Although he’s not sure that’s really much better. “Yeah,” he creaks. “I mean the fact I’m here right now is kind of a clue. That we do shit like go to dinner parties together. That and your sudden lack of concern for public indecency laws, Miss _I-once-got-a-speeding-ticket_… Do we need to maybe talk about that?” 

She huffs a laugh, in spite of herself. “I… don’t recall complaints at the time.”

“That’s cos I wasn’t capable of fucking _talking—”_

She quiets him again, this time with a kiss. It starts almost soft but rapidly escalates. Until he’s almost giddy breathless, and there’s nothing _half_ about his hard-on any longer, pressing urgent against the soft skin of her belly.

“Sam?”

“What?” 

She slides down onto him, taking the length of him inside her, eyes locked on his. “I love you,” she says. 

“Jesus. Fuck.” He brings a hand to her cheek as she moves against him. “Ruth, I—”

“I love you.”

“Oh, God—”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, I love you too.” The words come out as a desperate rush. “So fucking much, Ruth.”

And he’s holding her so tightly it must be almost painful, but he needs every inch of her against him, to press down against a rising tide of feeling that threatens to overwhelm him. He’s no stranger to fierce desire, and he knows what it means when that mingles with some deeper ache in his chest. Love, or at least his approximation of it. But this is – this is something else. Something all-consuming and fucking terrifying. A high he’ll spend the rest of a short life chasing if he lets it slip through his fingers. The stupid _I’d-die-for-her_ passion of youth, that passed him by when it was timely; that he’s always scoffed at.

Now he finally feels it, bone deep, and it’s a cruelty. To have this now, when he’s old and fucked up; when he has at best a handful of good years to offer her—

“I know,” she gasps. Bringing him back to the here and now. “I know, Sam, I—oh. _Oh_.”

She’s losing her rhythm, losing her words, and he lets go with her. Lets her fuck him into oblivion, as outside the sun comes up, on what is for everyone else is presumably a perfectly ordinary Friday morning.

* * *

“So, is this it?”

“Yeah, this is it.”

They’re in her car, outside the community center that holds his regular AA meeting. Friday morning spent in sleep at her side, Friday afternoon on the kind of sappy lover’s talk he’s spent a lifetime avoiding. 

(_“Tell me… tell me the best memory you have.” _

_She’s stroking the hair from his forehead absently, propped on one elbow. _

_“Oh, come on—” _

_“Mine is… mm. The first time I got a real curtain call. The applause and cheers that I knew were for me; for what I’d done.” _

_He rolls his eyes. “Of course it fucking is.” _

_“Come on. I gave you mine!” _

_“Ugh. Okay. Mine is…” He thinks about it. “Mine is waking up with you, the morning after you moved in here.” _

_Her fingers stop. “Sam. I was being serious—” _

_“Me too. You looked like a piece of renaissance art. You know? Like you were… carved out of fucking marble. I couldn’t even touch you. I didn’t want to break the spell.” He risks looking up at her, finding her somewhere between flattered and stricken, and gives her the out. “Second after that is probably… I dunno. Picking up the check for my first movie…?”)_

Now it’s Friday evening, and somehow they’re not sick of one another yet. “I’ll be about an hour,” he says. “Then we can go pick up some dinner?”

She nods. “Have a good… meeting.” She frowns as her brain catches up with her ears. “If that’s possible.”

He shrugs, opening the car door and swinging his legs out. “Oh, anything’s possible…”

* * *

_(Anything’s possible._

_Like a Friday night, curled up together watching black and white movies. Boris Karloff as Frankenstein’s monster; Robert Donat and Madeline Carroll— _

_Like a Saturday morning, starting early with a stroll in the Hollywood hills. Hand in hand like any other couple. She kisses him on the mountaintop, waking that monster in his chest, and he takes her back to his place to fuck her all over again. An afternoon of sex and sleep; an evening finally enjoying a long-promised fancy dinner—)_

Ruth is wearing one of his shirts, sitting cross-legged on the couch as she reads the part of the evil Vampire Queen from his _Van Helsing High _pilot script. Justine has taken the role of Arrie the transfer student, which leaves him filling in for the curmudgeonly headmaster and various evil henchmen. Except right now neither of them can keep a straight face at Ruth’s over-dramatic rendition; her exaggerated Transylvanian accent as ludicrous as Zoya’s.

“Oh, my God, stop,” Justine manages. “I can’t breathe—”

“Alright,” he chuckles. “Okay.”

“I mean, I think it’s brilliant,” says Ruth in her normal voice, as they compose themselves. “You have to pitch it to Debbie. It’s exactly the kind of thing _GLOW TV _needs.”

“Is that what the network’s called now?” asks Justine.

“Yeah. Bash agreed to the re-brand. As of next week, we are… GLOW.”

"Huh." He nods to himself. “Well, I’ll think about it,” he says. As if he doesn’t know that this fierce joy cannot _possibly_ last; that he will fuck it all up somehow, sooner or later. Or the universe will conspire to snatch it away from him, the second he comes to believe it might be real.

Instead he meets Ruth’s smile across the room and thinks about kissing her again; about spending Sunday night together; spending _every_ night together that he has left.

As if anything’s fucking possible, for a change.


	20. Toys out the pram

She’s buzzed him inside the building, but her apartment door is still resolutely shut. If he had to guess, she’s planning some big reveal moment that hasn’t quite worked out in terms of timing. He knocks smartly on her front door to hurry things along. He’d never willingly admit it but he’s aching to see her after a working week of cold turkey. Exactly why she’s blown him off he’s not sure; he has the vague idea that time apart is something she thinks they _should_ take, rather than what either of them actually wants—

She finally snaps open the door breathless, red faced. Her hair is escaping from its ponytail and – more shockingly – she’s touting a tousled blonde and blue-eyed toddler on her hip.

“Oh, wow,” he says, when he’s picked up his jaw. “Safe to say I’m not the father though, right?” he jokes, indicating the fair-haired curls. 

She winces slightly, and too late he remembers that the father in question could have been doubly so. “Debbie’s sitter cancelled last minute—”

“Alright, I get it. I can go away for a few hours, come back later.”

She nods, brushing the hair out of her eyes with her free hand. Randy is tugging at the neck of her shirt with the unerring knack for impropriety two-year-old boys have. “Sure. You can – we can do that.”

He narrows his eyes. “Oh, come on. You’re not suggesting I _stay_? You know I’m not exactly kid friendly.”

She nods violently, dislodging the errant strands of hair again. “It’s fine. That’s fine.”

It doesn’t _sound_ fucking fine. He pulls his lips over his teeth, considering his options. “I mean, you’ve looked after him before, right? In Vegas?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I did some babysitting.” He waits, and sure enough the full confession follows. “When he was mostly asleep—”

“Uh-huh.”

“—less mobile—“

“Right.”

“—not… in my house?”

He sighs. “Alright, fine. Fine. I can stay for moral support. I’m not changing any diapers though.”

She rolls her eyes at this, refusing to deign him with a response to what he feels is a pretty fucking reasonable statement. He takes off his leather jacket, hanging it on the back of her desk chair, turning around to find he has Randy’s full and rapt attention.

“Hey, kid,” he says, not at all sure what should come next. Babies are something he’s avoided pretty well for most of his adult life. There are toys scattered at his feet. Stacking cups and bouncing balls, an ark of wooden animals and a threadbare stuffed rabbit; potato shaped and somehow vaguely familiar. Inspiration strikes and he sits, stiffly, down on the floor. “Wanna see a trick?”

Randy reaches out. “Green,” he says, pointing to one of the balls.

“That’s right." He covers it with a stacking cup, grabbing two of the others to make a matching set. Ruth is frowning curious, too, as round and round the plastic cups go. “Which one?”

Randy points to the cup that originally covered the ball. Smart kid. 

Of course, the ball isn’t there, and Randy’s mouth makes a little O of surprise. “Gone!” he declares, opening his chubby fists to better illustrate the point. Even Sam is prepared to admit it’s fucking cute.

“What about the other ones?” suggests Ruth, putting the toddler down to investigate up close.

Sam tips one cup and then the other, revealing nothing beneath either of them. “Uh-oh.”

Randy copies the movement, with a theatrical flourish. “Uh-oh,” he agrees, “all gone!”

“I guess so. Oh, no. Wait a minute. _Here_ we go.” He makes the ball reappear from behind the toddler’s ear. “_That’s_ where it went.”

Randy, wide-eyed, takes hold of the ball with both hands. He examines it carefully, as Sam looks up to find Ruth appraising him in similar detail, an expression he can’t name on her face. It turns into a smile as she catches his eyes. “Well, _I’m_ pretty impressed.”

“Don’t be," he starts, ready to explain the juvenile delinquency that prompted him to learn the sleight of hand in the first place—

Randy, however, has other plans. “Again?” the boy asks, offering Sam the ball.

“Alright. You better pay more attention this time, though. See if you can spot where it goes...”

* * *

They’ve run through every possible variation of ball and cup magic trick, the animals have spent a good twenty minutes marching two by two, and Rabbit (featuring the vocal talents of Ruth Wilder) has told a surprisingly detailed story of carrot-rooted theft and betrayal. They’re running out of entertainment ideas, in other words, and Randy is showing no signs of running out of energy. 

“Can’t we just… turn the TV on for a bit?”

“_No_,” she replies, annoyed at the very suggestion. “It’s not good for kids to watch too much television.”

“Seriously? You work for a TV network. You really believe that shi—?”

“Sam!”

“Fu – udge. God _dammit_.” He shakes his head. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

“You were doing fine when— oh, no, sweetie that’s not – that’s not actually a toy!”

It is, however, too late to save her set model from invasion by a small wooden crocodile. Sam tries and fails to swallow his amusement at her face of pain. “I mean, he seems happy _now_,” he says, never one to resist stirring an available pot.

“Don’t.”

“Uh-huh. When did Debbie say she’d be back, anyway?” 

She checks the clock on her desk and winces. “An hour ago?”

“Oh, Jesus...”

“We should probably give him some food, right?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. I mean, yeah, probably. What do they even eat at this age, anyway?”

She gives him a look. “He’s two, Sam. He can eat what we eat.”

“Really? You don’t have to… mash shit up or—?”

“Sam!”

“What? C’mon, he’s not even listening, look—" 

_Bzzzzzzzt_!

Their sniping – and Randy’s vocabulary lesson – is cut short by the intercom. He shakes his head, bringing the wooden elephant over to join Randy and his crocodile, as Ruth scrambles to her feet to press the button. 

“Hey,” crackles the voice of Debbie over the speaker. “I am _so _sorry I’m late—”

Randy takes the elephant from his hand gently, acting out a conversation of nonsense noises between his toys. Ruth opens the door and _Beezus_ _Christ_ says the crocodile, in a passable impression of his most exasperated tone.

There is an interesting frozen moment, underscored by Randy’s unconcerned babbling. Thankfully no further Sylvia-isms are forthcoming, and Debbie regains control of her face first. “Hi,” she manages. Her son looks up at the sound of her voice, all wooden animals forgotten as runs over to embrace her legs. “So, you’re running some kind of baby-sitting club, now?” she continues, running her hand through his hair as her son clings to her.

“No, not at all—” stutters Ruth.

“I was already on my way over to pick Ruth up for a date,” he says, trying not to wince as he stands. “Babysitting beat sitting in traffic twice.” 

“Ah-ha,” Debbie says, like she’s maybe read about what human laughter is supposed to sound like. She picks Randy up, as they gather up his playthings.

“Did the meeting go alright?” asks Ruth.

“Yeah, I think so. You know, it’s hard with some of these production companies to really get a handle on what they’re offering. But I think they have the seed of a good idea at least?”

“You know,” Ruth continues, as she hands over the tote bag of toys. “Sam was wondering if you have time for a meeting about some new programming he’s been developing with Justine...”

As ever, she has all the subtly of a brick. “Was I?” he says loudly.

“Mm-hmm,” Ruth says, ignoring the daggers he’s sending her. “And, you know, I think it’s something that could really work for _GLOW _network.”

He finds Debbie is regarding him coolly. “I’ll tell my secretary to find a slot for you,” she says eventually. “Just ring the office.”

“Oh, sure, is that where we’re at now?”

She flinches slightly, and he hears Ruth’s quiet squeak of shock. But fuck it, right? Every time he sees Debbie she seems to have dropped a degree colder. Brittle now as ice. She doesn’t owe him a job, but he thinks he’s earned at least the time of _day_. And who knows, maybe she could do with a colleague who isn’t so fucking terrified of her they can’t call her on her bullshit. They used to do that for one another, once upon a time. He doesn’t miss it in the way he doesn’t miss eating vegetables or taking exercise. It might not be fun, but he knew it was good for him.

She swallows her anger, in the same way a snake might unhinge its jaw to swallow an egg. “Thursday,” she says, “two o’clock?”

“Sounds perfect.” He’s not quite sure how this has pivoted round from a meeting he didn’t want to have into a great big point to prove. Perhaps he should give Ruth more credit, in terms of knowing the levers to pull to get what she wants out of both of them.

“It’ll be all of us,” she warns, and throws down the gauntlet. “Hope it’s a good pitch.”

“Yeah, me too.”

There is a beat; even Randy maintaining the quiet. “I’ll – I’ll walk with you back downstairs,” Ruth breaks in breathless, before lightning actually sparks out of the tension in the air between them.

* * *

_“I thought the worst part of moving town was going to be dealing with the jocks and prom queens at my new school,”_ says Justine, as the tape plays on screen for the assembled execs. Debbie helms the table, captain at the head of the U-shaped arrangement. Bash on her left, two besuited and bespectacled accounting types on her right. They’re going to be a hard fucking sell, he can already tell.

The tape finishes, and he knocks the lights back on. “So, you can see, we’re targeting the teen demographic with this,” he starts. He knows they’re sorely lacking for content in that lucrative market. “And the theme of female empowerment that GLOW network is known for is also at the heart of this show.”

“Well, I mean we have the lady wrestlers and the lady stunt cyclists in our kids offering,” says Suit One, with a laugh. “I’m not sure that qualifies us as a beacon of feminism _quite_ yet.”

Sam catches Debbie’s eye; he can see the muscle in her jaw ticking as she grits her teeth. “It does seem like the kind of action driven show we’ve been looking for to fill the Saturday evening slot though, don’t you think?” she tries.

“Maybe,” says Suit Two. “We were thinking more car chases and shoot-outs when we last spoke about this. A lady cop show to compete with KDTV’s _Good As Gold_, if you remember.”

It’s his turn to grind his teeth. “I hear what you’re saying, but _Good As Gold _is an established property at this point. You’d be chasing their audience; _Van Helsing High_ gives you a chance to build a new one. Car chases we can certainly manage. And rather than gun play, the focus will be on martial arts. I mean, there’s less chance of an issue if another Kennedy gets assassinated, right?”

They seem less convinced by this line of argument than he’d hoped. “Bash?” asks Debbie. “What do you think?”

The young man has been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the pitch meeting so far, frowning slightly, as if he’s struggling to quite remember something. Now he meets Sam’s eyes for the first time and there’s a coldness there that sinks his stomach. Too late he remembers their last real interaction was essentially a row over Sam’s unwillingness to support him over Debbie.

“I think the premise is good,” he says at last, and there’s very little left of the eager wrestling fanboy Sam remembers meeting in the polo lounge. This is Bash Howard Birdie’s son; cold and calculating. “I’m more concerned about the staffing.” He reorders the papers on his table. “You’re pitching yourself as showrunner, budgeting for a writing room _and_ a roster of guest directors?”

“We think with the proposed hour-long format—”

“It sounds expensive, Sam,” Bash cuts across. “And frankly, I don’t think you’re the right fit to helm this kind of property.”

He frowns. “Well, the idea—” he tries.

“Ideas are cheap,” Bash continues. “Or so someone once told me. Realizing them isn’t. I don’t think you have enough experience of being a showrunner for us to take the risk on this. I mean, come on. It’s an open secret you’ve dropped the ball on a number of previous projects due to substance abuse issues and an… overly complicated personal life, shall we say?”

Sam blinks. His first thought is that Bash must be feeling very goddamn secure, these days, to risk saying a thing like that out loud. He bites his tongue for a moment, watching Suit One and Two exchange an almost imperceptible shake of their heads. And this is probably the part where he tells them all to go fuck themselves and storms out, is his second thought. _Van Helsing High_ has got legs, there’s a chance they can sell it elsewhere. It’s only Ruth’s ridiculous notion of working in the same studio that has fallen to pieces. The pathetic fantasy of driving in and home together; of catching meals on days when shooting schedules don’t match, when he’s pulling night shifts whilst she’s doing days—

“What if Ruth was in charge?”

“What, you’re pitching for your girlfriend to have a job now?”

“Bash, shut up,” snaps Debbie at last. “Ruth is busy with _Women’s Wrestle Mania_—”

“Yeah, for the next six weeks. There’s no scheduling conflict here. And if you wanna keep her in house, you’re not going to do with wrestling. Not in the long run. This is... this is a good fit for her.”

Debbie sits back in her chair, considering. “Have you even asked Ruth if she wants to take this project on?”

Not as showrunner, if he’s honest. They’ve talked about her working in the writer’s room, guest directing; a recurring role as a Vampire villain. “No,” he says. “Not like this.”

Debbie takes a breath. “You’ve got twenty minutes, Sam. Go find her and explain. And then she can pitch her version to us at half past two.”


	21. What you wanted

It’s an uncanny feeling, stepping on to her set. There are echoes of the Heyworth, of the gym, of Vegas; all in one space. She has the jib he always wanted, for aerial shots. Space around the sides of the ring still for the handheld operators to do their work. Even more glitter and sequins; a neon _WWM_ sign casting a pink glow over everything.

And Melrose, in the ring with a young woman he doesn’t recognize, rehearsing a match.

“Oh my God,” she says, catching sight of him and calling a halt. “Look who it is. The prodigal director.”

“Hi, hey,” he manages. “Is, uh, is Ruth about?”

“Well, some things never fuckin' change,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Pretty sure she’s in the editing box. Through that door.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, no problem,” she replies, sarcastic. “I mean it’s great to see you too and have this lovely catch up...”

He nods weary acknowledgement of her grousing, but doesn’t have the time or inclination to deal with that shit right now. If ever. He crosses the set to the door she’s indicated instead. Rather than a gantry office, Ruth’s version of the same is a little way from set, down a short brown-carpeted corridor.

She’s watching rehearsal footage intently when he pushes open the door, making notes in her portfolio. “I’ll just be a –”

“Ruth, it’s me.”

_Now_ she looks up, her initial joy fading quickly as she takes in his face. “You’re finished already? That was – that was quick—”

“Listen,” he says, “because we don’t have a lot of time.”

“Sam, what happened?”

“They won’t do it with me as showrunner.”

“What? Why? Just, let me talk to Debbie –”

“Will you please just fucking listen, Ruth? I suggested you do it instead, and they want you in there to pitch in five minutes.”

She goggles at him. “_Me_? But... what about _WWM_?”

He shakes his head. “They won’t clash. Not for this season, anyway. What happens after that probably depends on renewal... Look, this isn’t how I wanted it to shake down, but it’s what’s on the table. And I still think this could be work! If it’s what you want.”

“What do you mean, what I want?”

“Your own show.”

“Sam, I –”

“Ruth, yes or no?”

“It’s not that simple! This was your pitch; I don’t want to just be some figurehead! Or worse than that, some fig leaf.”

“That’s not... That’s not what this is. Look, I’m not saying I don’t want creative input. But you’d have the final say. The buck stops with you. Do you want that or not?”

“Do _you_?”

He recoils slightly, but it’s a fair question. The man that first met her, years ago now in that shitty gym, certainly wouldn’t tolerate being told what to do by some fucking _actress_. That Sam would rather have thrown all this away then step back; let someone else take the reins in order to stay on the ride.

He should probably feel proud of himself. Instead he feels very old and very tired. “Yeah,” he says. “I think it’s time.”

She takes a breath. "Alright," she says. "I'll give it a shot."

"You know what you wanna say?" 

"Yeah," she says, meeting his eyes briefly. Like he's thought all along: she wants this. "I have a pretty good idea..."

* * *

She isn’t answering her door. He knows she’s home; can see her little yellow car parked on the street. He presses the intercom button again, and again. Holding down the button, a beyond-annoying buzz that drones on and on.

Still nothing.

On the doorstep he considers his options. There’s a payphone a block away…

Five minutes later he’s fumbling in the coins and dialing her number. “Ruth Wilder speaking.”

“Hey, it’s me—”

_Beeeeeeeeeep._

She’s fucking hung up on him. They’re off to _great_ start with this whole new working relationship thing, clearly.

He dials her number again. She picks up at least, but doesn’t speak. He suspects she's only answered because she’s so neurotic about missing a call from someone else, but he can work with that. “If you hang up on me again, the next thing I’m going to do is climb the fucking trellis, Ruth.”

“This building doesn’t even _have _a trellis—”

“Well, the goddamn drainpipe then! Jesus. What happened to us trying to be grown-ups about—?”

“Uh, you _disappeared_, Sam! I – I won the pitch and then I was trying to find you and, and Melrose said you’d driven off! And then you didn’t answer when I called you at home, and I thought... I thought…”

_“What,_ Ruth? What did you think?”

“I don’t know! That you’d gone off to drink or, or do coke or—”

“Jesus _Christ_.” There is a long silence, as he pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to keep hold of his temper.

“Where _did_ you go?” she tries.

“Well, if you’ll open the fucking door, I’ll show you.”

In fact, she comes down to the street to find him. “I’m sorry—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He passes her the big brown envelope. “I went to set this up.”

She pulls out a thick sheet of legal papers, enough for her to scan the first few paragraphs of the top document. “You’re… setting up a production company?”

“We are.”

“What? No, Sam, I don’t want—”

“What, to control your own salary? Own your own creations? I mean c’mon, this is where we fucked up with KDTV in the first place.” She’s still dithering. “Look, lets go inside, and you can fret over every bullet-point and caveat, alright?”

“But what if it doesn’t… I mean, what if we…?”

“What if we break up?” 

She nods.

He shrugs. It should sting, but he’s a fucking realist. Hanging his hopes on a Hollywood happy ending has never worked out well for him. “That’s why it’s set down in black and white, Ruth. Fifty percent each from the start. If it all fucks up there’s no legal wrangling required. At least over any business aspects. _What_?”

“I just…” She wipes her watering eyes. “I don’t know! I don’t know, Sam! It’s all so unexpected and overwhelming.”

“Really? I thought this is what you wanted." He swallows. "Collaboration. You know? You be Hitch. I’ll be Alma.”

Her breath catches for a second at those words. Her voice, when she finds it, is low and soft. “I just never quite pictured it this way.”

That’s so often her problem, he knows better than to say. She has strangely rigid ideas, sometimes, about the _right_ way for things to turn out. Take what you get, he wants to tell her. If fortune rains gravy and you’re the one holding the big bowl, don’t smash it up just to spite yourself. He’s learned that one the hard way.

And _because_ of that he keeps his mouth closed on that particular line of thought. “I know,” he says instead. “Me neither.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, my life is fucking ridiculous! I’m sober. I’m trying to figure out how the fuck to put a kid I didn’t even know existed two years ago through college. I just ate shit and did the right thing to save a project I care about, rather than storm out of a pitch meeting. You know, I’m dating someone who is… a million miles from what I thought I wanted. And I’m the happiest I’ve ever been! So, you know, screw what I pictured. This is better.”

He kisses her. One of their patented desperate embraces; like lovers at the station in wartime rather a residential sidewalk on a mild spring night.

“A million miles?” she says, arch, when they break apart.

“Oh, _that’s _what you pick up on? Not the ‘happiest I’ve ever been’ part?” He captures her mouth again for a moment.

“I’ll do it,” she says, against his face.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m going to read the contract carefully first…” Of course. He’d expect nothing less than a fine tooth-comb. “But I think… that you’re right.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, and kisses him softly once more. “This is better.”

* * *

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

He greets the jolly peeping of his alarm clock with a heartfelt groan, slapping the thing into submission. “Oh, God,” he says, to the dark before the dawn. “Why the fuck did I say I would do this, again?”

“Hmm.” At his side, Ruth turns over. Wriggling closer under the covers until she is warm against him. “I don’t know… Because you want to be a good father to Justine and a supportive co-parent to Rosalie?”

He scowls. “I dunno… That doesn’t really sound like me.”

She chuckles, quieting him with a sleepy kiss. “Well, maybe you just hate to be predictable.”

“Maybe.”

He kisses her again. It goes on for some time. Until her body is pressed underneath his; until he’s nudging her legs apart with his knees—

“This is, by the way,” she says.

“Is what?”

“Predictable.”

“Oh,” he says, lifting his head. “Oh, well in that case…”

She kisses him again in the end; a stupid victory he’s proud of, nonetheless. “I didn’t say that was a _bad_ thing…” 

It does mean he leaves half an hour later than planned for Sacramento, his car loaded with boxes of crap he knows full well Justine won’t want to take to New York.

He sighs. It’s not like he’s even getting his spare room back; he hasn’t made her clear it completely. Surprised to find he doesn’t really want her to. And Ruth’s lease is up in another month, he reminds himself gloomily. They’ve been dancing around what _that_ means for a while, in spite of the fact they spend more nights together than apart, these days.

He should just ask her to move in with him. He knows that, but the thought of schlepping more boxes _in_ so soon after clearing all of Justine’s stuff _out_ makes his head throb. And if he’s honest with himself, it’s going to feel pretty fucking crowded in his duplex with up to three of them in there.

Really, what he _should_ be doing is looking for a new place with Ruth.

The idea fascinates and horrifies him in about equal measure. It’s taken him a long time to get out from underneath the clusterfuck of his previous attempt at domestic bliss. And with college tuition coming out of his pay-check now, he can’t afford to be as traditional about it a second time around. Not if they want to up-size in any substantial way.

And of course, there’s that whole… other thing. The bit that usually comes before buying a house, in the course of a traditional happily-ever-after.

He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t think about that too, sometimes. In the hazy aftermath of making love, when they curl around one another to sleep. When he sees her on set; in her element directing operators and actors alike…

He sighs again. Given how long it took for them to negotiate drawer space in their respective rooms, discussing their desire or not for the whole nine yards with a white picket fence might remain somewhat beyond them. With a shake of his head, he turns up the radio to drown out his thoughts and accelerates, joining the early traffic north on the I-5.


	22. Halloween

He’s always thought his rock-solid core of bitter cynicism was a kind of natural defense against acts of romantic stupidity. But looking at his reflection, he’s forced to confront the fact that maybe he’s not as immune as he thought.

“Hey,” he yells, nervousness coming out of his mouth as peevishness, as per usual. “Are you nearly done?”

“Almost!” she shouts back, from where she’s closeted in his bathroom. Applying make-up, he thinks.

“Ah, c’mon Ruth. We’re going to be late if you don’t—”

She opens the door. “Done!”

“Jesus fucking _Christ_!”

From the neck down she’s absolutely stunning in an old-fashioned nightgown. All lace and bodice and—well, yeah, the stuff she has that fills out said bodice. It’d be the costume of his fevered dreams, minus the blood-splatter, except she’s transformed her face into what can only be described as a horrifying _maw_. A fanged grin stretches ear to ear, flecked with gore. Even he’s impressed with the effect.

“Is it good?”

“You know I’m trying to _avoid_ a second heart attack, right?”

She winces at that. “Sorry. Maybe I should—”

“No, no. I mean, it’s good. It’s fucking terrifying. People might just need a little warning before you jump out on them like that. Where did you get the _fangs_?”

“Dawn and Stacy have been experimenting with prosthetics.”

“Ah, of course.” He coughs nervously, smoothing down his own costume, frankly dull in comparison. A version of Dracula heavily inspired by Christopher Lee; smart black suit and waistcoat under his crimson lined cape. He’s painted his face pale and swept back his hair to show willing. Drew the line at shaving off his mustache, though. “So, what do you think? Am I going to get into this exclusive Halloween party?”

“You look great,” she reassures, smiling at him under the make-up. He shivers despite himself. It really _is_ creepy. Oblivious, she holds out her arm. “So… Vill you take me to ze party?”

“Yeah, I’m not doing the fucking accent.”

“I, I know.”

“Alright.” He takes her arm, and a deep breath. “Let’s fucking do this.”

* * *

“_They did the Mash!_

_They did the Mo-o-nster Mash! _

_The Monster Mash!” _

He shakes his head, ladling himself another plastic cup of non-alcoholic punch and taking in the general chaos of the GLOW network letting their hair down. It’s almost ten. The entropic unraveling that characterizes these things, at least in his experience, is starting to pick up pace.

He touches the token in his pocket. At times like this, sobriety bites hard.

And he knows he’s staring down the barrel of a whole _rash_ of these fucking things over the next few weeks. _Van Helsing High_ debuts its pilot episode (_Freshmen Freshmeat _– written by Justine Biagi, & Sam Sylvia, directed by Ruth Wilder) on Halloween itself. There are interviews scheduled with various papers; the inevitability of having to drink too much fruit juice rather than scotch while they meet executives and influencers. A week later _Hollywood Loser's Club _sweeps into cinemas, with a cavalcade of even more press and parties to go with it. Jonathan’s career rides on that being a success, and as Sam has long suspected, there’s a sharp mind behind his mild-mannered façade. If the movie bombs it won’t be for lack of canny marketing. Beyond the likes of anything _he’s_ ever experienced before, whatever lies he’s told to reassure Justine.

Oh, and of course they’re still filming the final episodes of their season of _Van Helsing_. The finale cliff hanger (_The Pit, the Pendulum and the Prom Queen – _written by Ruth Wilder, directed by Sam Sylvia) is slated for filming late November.When you add in the vague indications from Ruth that she wants them to host Thanksgiving for her parents, he thinks, it’s no surprise his fingers are twitching for old bad habits—

“So… are you in character right now or just plain miserable?” Cherry, drawing him out of his woeful reverie. She’s taken the whole ‘sexy cat’ concept to the outer limits; a lioness in glitter and gold.

“Wow. _That’s_ a helluva fucking costume.”

“You should see Keith’s mane,” she demurs. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“’Cos you already know the answer.”

She shakes her head. “I remember when you were the life and soul of the party—”

“Yeah, and sky high on coke and looking to score, probably. That’s not my fucking life anymore.”

“Oh, but, casting a pall is?” she fires back. Indicating the boundary line no one else has dared to cross, of his sucking black-hole of misery.

“Alright, okay… Why are you talking to me, anyway? What do you want?”

“Other than the pleasure of your company? To ask you about an idea we have. Me and Keith.”

“An idea about _what_?”

“A TV show! You’re a producer now, too, right?”

“Ah, not exactly—”

“What else do you call a man with his own production company?”

He scowls, shaking his head, but an adequate comeback eludes him. “What’s the big idea?”

“Uh-uh, not here. Not tonight. Come for dinner.”

“Oh, right!” he scoffs. “Like that’s easy. Do you have any fucking idea what my diary is like for the next few months—?”

“Do you have any idea about mine?”

He huffs a sigh, but she has him there, right enough. “Sorry," he manages. "That was rude and… condescending. I’m sorry.”

“Huh! Never thought I’d hear you say _that_. Look, how about when we start filming the finale? You’re directing, I’m stunt co-ordinating. We know we’ll both be around on set. You can come by after work and Keith can make all of us some dinner.”

He sighs again, but there’s little point in fighting some things. “Alright, alright. Jesus.”

“Good,” she replies. “And stop standing here being all miserable by yourself.”

“I’m _not_—” he starts, but catches her raised eyebrows and gives it up. “Fine. I clearly need to see Keith the cowardly fuckin’ lion, anyway…” 

* * *

By eleven the music has shifted from Halloween seasonal to something altogether slower. And he’s possibly prepared to admit the party hasn’t been entirely awful. Catching up with Cherry and Keith, and hearing Tammé’s plans for guests on her talk show; the still almost unrecognizable Sheila’s forays into the world of serious drama…

And Ruth is approaching him now, minus the fangs but with a calculating look, as the opening bars of _Wonderful Tonight _start to play.

“Hi,” she says, soft, as she reaches him. He takes her hand and pulls her in for brief kiss.

“Hey, stranger.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, I get it. Really.” He twitches a smile. “You wanna dance?” 

“Yes,” she says, and they join the other couples on the floor.

It’s not the kind of song for much else than holding on to one another, swaying slow. And he’s still fool enough in love with her to want nothing more than to bury his face in her neck, which at least is Vampire appropriate—

“Did you have fun?” she says, fingers tracing over his shoulders under the ridiculous fucking cape. 

“Eh, it was fine…”

They sway some more, and she draws back to look at him. Nose tracing his, lips meeting briefly, in spite of their best intentions. He breaks the kiss before they go too deep, but she presses forward again, and he’s powerless to resist her.

_“And then she asks me: do you feel alright?_

_And I say: yes_

_I feel wonderful tonight” _

He forces them apart. “Hey,” he whispers. “I thought we said professional tonight?”

“I know, I know! I just… well, I don’t feel like I want to be very professional right now.”

Something primal unfurls in his chest at that. “Well,” he says carefully, “we _could_ take this party... elsewhere…?”

“Mm-hm.”

And it’s hardly subtle, their hurried departure from the dance floor, hand-in-hand. He doesn’t care. They make it as far as the deserted parking lot; kiss passionately against his car. And his cape has its uses, he realizes. He pulls it around them both to shield from any prying eyes, as she thrusts her hands into his pants; as his move over that _ridiculous_ nightgown—

He catches her eyes, in the act of unbuttoning him. It’s a forty-minute drive back to his place from the studios, not much closer to hers, and he’s damn sure neither of them can wait that long.

He pops the door of his Cadillac instead. Lets her pull him into the back, where he lays her down across the leather seats. And right about now, he thinks, it might just be the best fucking Halloween party _ever_.

* * *

The next morning, he asks her to take a drive with him.

“Where are we going?”

“Ah… it’s kind of a surprise…”

Now they’ve been riding in silence for twenty minutes. Hers is the narrowed-eyed, curious sort; trying to assemble clues from the passing geography about where the fuck he’s taking her. His is the nervous kind, as he tries to reassure himself this is still a good idea...

He stops outside the place and she gives him a confused look. “Look,” he says, “just, trust me and go with this. Alright?”

“Sam, _why_ are we—?”

He ignores her, stepping out of the car. There’s a young woman waiting on the porch of the pretty little house. Well, it’s little in comparison to the turreted castle confections further down the street. The modest two-story is still several times the size of his current place.

“Hi,” says the woman, stepping into the morning sun to shake his hand. “Hilary. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Sylvia?”

He hears Ruth open her mouth to make the correction—

“Yup,” he says, before she can. Grabbing blindly for her hand, giving her fingers a squeeze. Incitement not to give the game away. “I think we spoke on the ‘phone, right?”

“We did. Let me take you inside and give you the tour…”

He risks looking at Ruth as they follow the realtor into the hallway. Her expression is politely bemused, he thinks. He gives her a wink, his fingers still knit with hers, and Hilary starts her sales pitch.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later they are standing alone in the kitchen, the real estate agent having stepped outside to give them space to think, in her words.

“So,” he hears himself say. “What _do_ you think?”

“About _what_? I still don’t understand what we’re doing here. Is this for a set?”

“No, it’s for sale.” He looks down at the floor for a moment, considering his next sentence. The panes of stained glass around the windows cast squares of turquoise and orange on the tiles. Pretty, he thinks, as his mouth starts to move, apparently without bothering to consult his brain. “Ruth, I, uh… I want us to move in together. I mean, if that’s what you also want.” He risks looking up. She is literally dumbstruck, and he has to fill the silence with _something_. “And, you know, with three of us in my house there’s going to be fucking murder sooner or later. So, I thought... why not look for somewhere new?” He shrugs, indicating their surroundings. “So, what do you think?” 

He can see her throat working as she swallows, trying to find an appropriate response. “… You want me to move in with you?” she manages, hoarse. 

“Yeah.” He finds he’s laughing at her total shock at this sentiment. “I mean, come on, we’re practically doing it anyway. Might as well make it official, right?”

“Here?”

He shrugs. “I mean, not if you don’t like it—”

“Sam, it’s… it’s perfect. I just – how did you know that—?”

“You go crazy for these Victorian houses? Uh, because I was listening when you were flirting with Chad over set design.”

“I was _not_ flirting with Chad,” she denies, pinking slightly.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious, I’m—”

“—completely blind to the charms of a guy who’s good with his hands and looks like a young Paul Newman? Sure.”

She folds her arms. “Well, I think I like it,” she says. Smiling at the elegant china cabinets and glass-fronted cupboards, before her face starts to cloud. “… but can we even afford it?”

That, indeed, is the rub. “I earned enough in Vegas for me to make the down payment. Depending on how much I get for my place right now, and how well _Hollywood Losers Club _does on release—”

“And I contribute... what?”

He grits his teeth. “Look, I know you’re a modern woman and… and I can respect that. But, you know, this is… it’s kind of an important guy thing—” 

“Right,” she scoffs, crossing the line from amused to annoyed. “Of course, you’d think that—”

“If a guy can’t keep a woman in the conditions to which she’s accustomed, he’s not that much of man. That's all I'm saying,”

She narrows her eyes. “Is that a quote?”

“No! Well, kind of.” He sighs heavily. “Look, my old man gave me very little in the way of rules and guidelines when it came to figuring out… fuck, anything, if I’m honest. But he was pretty clear about that.”

She opens her mouth to protest and closes it again. “I – I don’t want to be disrespectful,” she says carefully. _You would_, he wants to say, _if you’d ever had the misfortune to meet the man_. But he keeps his mouth shut instead as she continues. “You know, that was… that was good advice for a different time. And, by the way, if we’re talking about conditions to which I’m accustomed... You’ve seen my apartment. This is… _way_ beyond that.”

He finds he is looking at his feet. “You really mean it?”

“What? That I’d want to pay my half? _Yes_.”

It still twists in his chest, if he’s honest, but maybe it’s one of those things he’s going to have to learn to live with if it means he gets to live with Ruth. “Alright,” he hears himself say. “We can… we can think about it.”

“Is that why you pretended we were married?”

“Oh. Yeah. I mean, people can be funny about selling if they think—”

“—that we’d be living here in sin?” Amusement is dancing around her mouth again now, thank fuck. 

“Something like that.”

She laughs. “I mean, we could do something about that,” she continues. There is a moment of shocked silence, as they both realize quite how that could be interpreted. She coughs. “You know, I mean we keep pretending—”

“—right, right—”

“—if we go and look at some other places. This is just the first one. We should, we should check out some more… Right?”

His hands find hers. And he can see the scene as if from the outside, the two of them standing in the kitchen together. What might become _their_ kitchen. There’s a weight to it, an inevitability. And of course, he knows they’ll end up looking at other fucking places, because that’s what Ruth is like. But he felt in his bones _this is the one_ from the moment he saw first saw the listing.

“Yeah,” he says. “Probably.”


	23. Everything at once

“Are you looking?”

“Yes, I’m looking!”

“’Cos I’m probably not going to be able to pull over in this traffic, so—”

“Sam,” Justine says, her nose pressed against the window. “I’m looking."

“Okay. Up on the left in a minute and… there we go!”

It’s their billboard. _Hollywood Losers Club_ in bold letters. _Starring Laurel Nicholls, Nick Keegan and Edward James Olmos. _

“Oh, my God,” she says. “It’s… bigger than I thought it would be.”

“I know right? You can actually see our fucking names.”

They’re there in the small print, which he understands even if it rankles. She’s still an unknown writer, and it isn’t his old audience they’re targeting. Pushing the movie as a Sam Sylvia production will hinder more than it helps, bringing in a crowd who expect boobs and blood and blaxploitation. If he has any draw left at all, these days. But knowing all of this doesn’t make him feel less fucking _annoyed_ about it.

“Did you take a photo already?” she asks.

“Yeah, I came out for a walk with my camera when it went up. Wanna go ‘round again?”

“No. No, it actually makes me feel kinda nervous...”

“Yeah, me too.”

They drive on in slightly queasy silence for a while. “Um, isn’t home _that_ way?” Justine says, as he misses their usual turn.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat nervously. “About that…”

“What, did you move or something?” She throws it out as a joke. 

“Well. Not yet.”

“Are you _serious_?”

He risks a glance sideways, finding her incredulous expression hard to read, in terms of whether she views this news as positive or negative. “Yeah,” he says. “And I thought you might want to see the place I’m going to buy.”

“Holy shit! Is – um. Are you and Ruth going to...?”

“Yeah,” he says again, more carefully. And he doesn’t ask if that’s okay, because it’s not her decision to make. But he also avoids the joke on the tip of his tongue about there being space for her in the yard. 

“I mean, she’s practically living with us—with you, anyway.”

He doesn’t miss her slip of the tongue. “Exactly. And this gives us more space. Spare rooms, so you can bring friends back from New York. I mean, if that’s what you want.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No! No, I mean it. You’re my kid, you think I want to miss out on embarrassing the shit out of you in front of your fancy college friends?”

She laughs. “I have a feeling they’re going to _love_ meeting you...”

“Oh, come on—”

“No, you’re… you were in my textbook.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I bought it back with me to show you. You’re referenced as one of the _auteurs_ responsible for the fusion of blaxploitation and horror genres.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, it’s a little wordy to get printed on a business card, but…”

She laughs. “So, where is this new house anyway?”

“Oh, we’re nearly there.”

“For _real_?” She looks out at the almost neo-Gothic homes, Munster family mansions at this end of the street. “Jesus. You really went for the whole Carroll Avenue thing, huh?”

“But, you know, cheaper,” he says. Crunching the parking brake as they reach what will – hopefully before Christmas – officially be their house.

“Is that it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Holy shit,” she says again.

“I know.” It’s a struggle to wrap his own brain around the reality of it. He indicates outside with his head, and she gives him a confused look.

“Aren’t the current owners still in there?”

“Yeah, but I told them my daughter was in town for the weekend. They’ll let us in for a look around so you can pick your new room. C’mon.”

Her reaction isn’t quite what he expected. Pressing her lips together; fighting back _tears_ at this piece of minor consideration. It’s been a while since the last of these uneasy parenting moments. He doesn’t think he’s fucked up, exactly. But he’s acutely aware that if he says or does the wrong thing right now it could get messy. So, he keeps himself still, watching her carefully. Does she doubt he wants her to be a part of the future he’s trying to build right now? He knows it was hard for her when Rosalie and Brad got married; maybe it’s shades of the same now he’s gotten so serious with Ruth.

To his relief, when she speaks, she’s sardonic as ever. “Seriously? Is that how you phrased it? They probably think I’m about five…”

They step out of the car together and make their way to the front door.

* * *

“Did it go okay at the house?” Ruth asks, sounding sleepy.

It’s almost midnight and they’re lying in bed together. Her head on his shoulder; her fingers tracing an aimless pattern on his chest. He’s running his thumb over her hipbone, similarly unthinking.

It’s how they fit together. A habit he didn’t notice them forming, until he started to miss the weight of her on nights spent apart.

“I think so,” he replies. “She wants the back bedroom, over the garage.”

“I mean, that makes sense—”

“Can you believe we’re having this kind of fucking conversation?”

He feels her smile twitch. “No,” she confesses, pressing a kiss over his heart. “You know, today I found myself thinking about... buying a Christmas tree...”

“Ohh. You want a real one, right?”

“I like the smell of pine.”

“Of course you do,” he grouses; thinking about dropped needles and their propensity to find bare feet.

But he'd take a whole fucking plantation, he knows, if it meant they got to spend Christmas just the two of them.

Her fingers still and her breathing slows as she drifts into sleep. He’s lost count, now, of how many times they’ve done this. Still not sick of it. At this point he knows he’s not going to _get_ sick of it. She’s under his skin. An addiction like cocaine or nicotine. He could give her up, but he’d never stop missing her…

And maybe he has to do something about that. After all, they run a fucking production company together, make a TV show. They’re going fifty-fifty on a house. At this point marrying him would just be the equivalent of collecting the full set. Right?

He presses his nose into her hair, not really convinced she’ll see it that way. He’s not sure why he cares so much. Except that on some soul-deep level, beyond even where he can let Ruth in, there’s a part of him it means something to. That she is his, and he is hers, and—

And he_ knows_ it’s all such bullshit. Pretty words and happy tears fade easy, and vows of forever are no guarantee he won’t one day find her in the arms of someone else.

Yet still, he’s thinking about it. Thinking maybe they could actually fucking _enjoy_ it. It wouldn’t be a desperate sticking plaster, this time around. Not something to change everything, in the hope of mending a fundamentally broken thing. He sees it more like an acknowledgement of their gradual wearing down of one another’s defenses. Of yielding to their fundamental simpatico and urgent personal chemistry to find this configuration, where two jagged halves make something whole. 

He sighs, running his hand along her back and closing his eyes. Holding her close until he’s fretted himself into uneasy sleep.

* * *

Somehow, without prior planning, father and daughter have both managed to dress in charcoal grey stripes. “Fuck,” he says, when Ruth points out the parallel. “Is it too cutsey?”

“No!” Ruth reassures. “You’re just… you’re in the same palette. It’ll look _great _on the photo shoot.”

“Hmmm.”

He trusts Ruth’s judgement on a great many things, but fashion is probably one area where they’re both equally terrible. Before he can really start to dwell on the issue the doorbell rings, and they’re out of time for a costume change.

“Good luck!” Ruth says, standing to give the ashen-faced Justine a hug; the same for him with a peck on the cheek. Then they’re out to the car sent by the studio, and on their way to the first of many, _many_ press interviews.

Justine hasn’t said much all morning. He suspects that if she opens her mouth, she might be sick. That’s certainly the way_he_ feels right now. He’s not really done press like this before. Marketing for most of his previous output went something like one; secure a state-wide ban on the basis of obscene content, and two; lean into the narrative of being a danger to society by saying or doing something fucking outrageous. Bans always drove up ticket sales in the theaters still daring to roll, beyond anything they’d achieve on a widespread release. And then he’d do the same for the video. Until being a professional dick was his life, and even he wasn’t sure whether what was coming out of his mouth was a joke or real…

He coughs, bringing himself back into the present. “Justine?”

“What?”

“Look… don’t panic, alright? You’re good at this stuff. Just be as honest as you want to be. If there’s skeletons left in my closet, they’re ones I don’t fucking know about. So… you’re not going to say anything that can hurt me. But you don’t owe them anything _you_ don’t want to give.”

She nods. “Right.”

The car stops. “Ready?”

“No.”

He grins. “That’s the spirit.”

* * *

In the end, she’s just as brilliant as she was when they sold her script. A natural storyteller, of course; witty and engaging. Like her old man, he even joked at one point.

“See,” he says, as they cross the reception of the studio building, “it wasn’t so bad.”

“Are you kidding? We were great!”

“Yeah. We were. Uh, look, I need to go see a guy about something...”

“_Please_ tell me that isn’t code for you having another heart attack?”

“No, no. I’m fine. I swear. I just really do need to see a guy. You headed home or out someplace else?”

“Home… first,” she confesses.

“Oh, I get it. Big date plans?”

“What? No — I —”

“I thought things between you and Jonathan had defrosted.”

She makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “We’ve been… writing letters to one another.”

“Cute.”

“Don’t—”

“No, I’m — well, maybe that’s your sequel material, right there.”

She makes a face. “I’m… not big into romance as a genre.”

“Yeah, me neither." Which is probably why what he's about to do next feels so fucking awkward. “Okay. Er, if she's home, can you let Ruth know I’ll be back by seven?”

It’s her turn to crack a grin at his discomfort with all this domesticity. “Sure,” she says, as the car pulls up. “I can probably do that..."

He waves her out of sight and sighs. But this is happening. It has that inevitability to it, a stupid thing he’s going to go ahead and try anyway. Like he's learned absolutely _nothing_ in his fifty plus years about these kind of risks. 

He walks half a block and hails a cab. “Hey, yeah, I want to go to Hill Street and Seventh? Thanks.”

* * *

She opens the door before he’s put his key to it, face shining with excitement. “What?” 

“The realtor called.”

It doesn’t _look_ like it was bad news. “And?”

“They closed the deal! It’s ours!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, no!”

“Oh, my God.” He might actually have to sit down. “You realize we’re now going to have to add packing up this place to the list of shit we have to get done, right?”

“I know, I know, but… it’s exciting! Isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He knows he’s not doing a very good job of telling it to his face, but he _is_ excited. And terrified. And already exhausted at the thought of boxing up more shit. “C’mere. Cohabitant.” He pulls her, laughing, into his arms. 

And the ring box in his jacket pocket feels strangely _heavier_ than moments ago, walking up the driveway. Now’s not the moment, he tells the impulsive, impatient part of himself. There’s no guarantee she’s going to say _yes_, after all, and this is the day they bought a house together. He doesn’t want to fuck it all up with a failed proposal.

“Do you want to go out somewhere and celebrate?”

“Sure,” he says. “I think I can afford… uh, maybe _Taco Bell?_”

She narrows her eyes. "We’re going fifty – fifty, remember?”

And he has no fucking way to tell her that he’s just dropped another three thousand dollars plus change, on an even riskier gamble. “True,” he tries. "Maybe we can upgrade to _Foster's Freeze?_"

“Or how about I pay and we can go to, um…” She’s grinning again, far too broadly for his liking. “…the _Palm_?”

He sighs. But they are celebrating, after all. “Okay, fine." 

"I'll make it worth you while..."

"Oh really?"

"Mm-hmm."

"How's that?" 

She's followed him into his bedroom, where the green and black dress she wore to the _Loser's Club _wrap party, months ago, is laid out on the mattress.

"Oh," he says. Sometimes he wishes he wasn't quite so fucking shallow about these things, but he can't deny his mood is instantly improved. "Alright..." 


	24. Bona fide hit

He’s still bleary eyed from the late night when his ‘phone starts to ring. Funny, that. He used to put it down to the booze or the blow, but it turns out it’s perfectly possible to wake up feeling shitty solely from your body’s own poisons.

He rolls over to answer, knowing a momentary pang for the absent Ruth. He’s not mad about it, not exactly. It makes sense she’d rather not accompany him to the premiere of the film that almost ended their entire relationship. And maybe it should be a thing for him and Justine to share together, no other distractions. So, yeah, he’s not mad. But he’s still selfishly _sad_ she wasn’t here in his bed when they returned in the small hours of the morning. 

He half hopes it’s her on the other end of the ‘phone now, which is why the ill tempered ‘yeah?’ on the way to his mouth transforms itself into a slightly softer: “Hello?”

“Hi, yes, this is Lorelai Jean from the office of Paul Schiff. We’d like to arrange a meeting with Sam Sylvia?”

He blinks. “Uh, one moment.” Covers the handset with his palm, clearing his throat. “Yeah, this is Sam speaking…”

* * *

Two hours later the doorbell rings. He opens it, still in a tee shirt and his boxer shorts, to find a bemused looking Ruth on the step.

“Hi,” she says. “I figured it would be a late night, but—”

“Justine’s on the line with one of the producers over at _Universal_.”

“Woah. Seriously?”

“Yeah!”

“How long have they been _talking_? I tried to call an hour ago, but you were engaged then, too...”

“No, that was… someone else. It’s been fucking crazy all morning.”

“Well,” she says, with a slightly wry smile, “maybe that’s because you’ve made a hit?” She lets the newspaper she’s carrying fall open. The review page. _Keegan Keeps It Real In Surprise Indie Smash_, says the headline.

He goggles for moment. “I mean, it’s _one_ decent review—”

She digs in her bag for the other weekend papers, their pages already folded. _Hollywood Losers Win Big in Heartwarming Comedy._ _Let’s Hear It For the Girls: Why 1987 is a bumper year for women in front and behind the camera._ And, most shockingly, _Schlock Horror Sylvia Finally Strikes Gold. _

“No,” her hears her say, over the roar of blood in his ears. “It’s really not.”

And his chest suddenly feels tight, a tingling in his fingers. “Uh,” he manages, touching the back of his hand to his inexplicably dry mouth. 

She gives him a concerned look. “Are you okay?”

“I dunno.” It’s not a heart attack, he doesn’t think. There’s none of the terrible pain he remembers from before; the crushing dread. He might simply feel faint at the realization that – for once in his life – something has gone suddenly, spectacularly right. “I’m not dying,” he says, catching her stricken expression. “I just… What the _fuck_? You know?”

“No,” she says, a little sadly. “I don’t.”

He sighs, seeing where this is headed. “Ruth, don’t—”

“I should– I should probably go,” she continues, trying now to hand him the papers. “I mean, if you’re sure you’re not. You know…”

“Having another fucking heart attack?”

She bites her lip. “Are you?”

“No.”

He folds his arms. He wants to ask her to stay, to share this moment with him. With Justine too. The realization is a slap in the face. Like they’re, what, a fucking _family _now? The idea of it is as crazy as their movie becoming a _bona fide_ hit.

“Where are you going?” he demands instead. He knows he sounds petulant; still can’t stop it coming out of his mouth like an accusation.

“...Work.”

“On a Sunday?”

“Well, you know—”

“Ruth, please. Can you just…? Look, I’ll, I’ll put on pants and we can go—”

“_No_,” she chokes, blinking back tears. And he knows the white-hot mix of jealousy and shame she’s experiencing right now; knows the bitter taste sticking in her throat better than anyone. “This is Justine’s moment. I don’t want to take away from that.”

“Yeah, and it’s my moment too, Ruth!” The words surprise him, falling out of his mouth into the space between them. “_Our_ moment. You know, you talked me down when I thought I couldn’t direct this. Kept me sane when I thought I was going to have to edit the whole thing on the U-Matic piece of shit. Fuck, if this does well at the box office it’s going to help pay for our house! _Our_ _house_. Can you stop comparing reality to whatever picture you have in your head for a minute and just… be here? With me? Just for a moment. That’s, that’s all I’m asking.”

She closes her eyes briefly. “I don’t know _why_,” she says, eventually, to her feet rather than his face. Her voice is still thick. “When I’m selfish and jealous and—”

“Ruth, I don’t fucking care. I don’t! I’ve stood where you are a thousand times, alright? And I will again. Next time, you can talk me down. Does that sound fair?”

She’s still staring at the floor. He touches a finger to her chin in the hope she’ll lift her face to look at him. She does, and some of the knot in his chest loosens. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I just—”

“Jesus Christ! Seriously?”

He kisses her, before she can babble on. 

“Sam, the neighbors—mmf—”

They’re not going to be his fucking problem in a few short weeks, he’d say if he could. But her face is in his hands; her mouth under his. Somehow, they’ve gyroscoped the edge of the catastrophe curve for once, rather than fallen off it. So, he kisses her; wishing he’d had the foresight to put on his damn pants. The ring box is in his pocket, and this feels like it might have been the right time to ask just one more question…

“Come on,” she says, when they break apart. Oblivious to his self-reproach. “Let’s go and show Justine these papers.”

* * *

It’s raining when they step out of the car. A damp and dreary November evening; the night already drawn in. In his right hand is the key. His left finds and folds around Ruth’s. They stand together in the driveway, staring up at what is now, officially, their house.

“Are you ready?” she says. Like they’re about to storm the gates rather than enter for the first time as owners.

“Yeah,” he says. He risks a glance at her determined face, pale in the dark. “I feel like I should… uh…”

“You should _what_?”

“I don’t know! Carry you over the doorstep or some shit?”

She laughs. “I think that’s for new brides, Sam.” 

His innards clench sickly, and he resist the urge to touch a finger to the box in his pocket. “Yeah, well,” he mutters. “Close enough.”

She squeezes his hand in reply. They walk up to the front door together and she puts her hand over his as he fits the key to the lock. They turn it together. Ludicrously melodramatic, but that’s them all over, when you get right down to it. 

He pushes open the door and they step inside. “Welcome home,” he says. Risking a glance sideways to see her reaction. To his relief, her face is shining with joy.

“Home…” The smile lasts another second or two, and then her brow wrinkles. “Is there still power?”

“Uh, yeah.” He flicks a light switch, casting them in a yellowish glow, and pats open the kitchen door. “They left us the cabinets, look.”

“And the table.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, no. I liked it…”

Her hand is still in his as they tour the rest of downstairs. Empty echoing rooms, looming larger than he remembers now they’re emptied of all their furniture. Traces of those that came before here and there. Frayed patches in old carpets; nicks in the door frames. Home repair he needs to do, to turn this place from _theirs_ to _ours_.

He waivers between dread and excitement about that, depending on whether he’s picturing the practicalities or entertaining the idea of himself as a guy who can fix stuff. He wants to be that, for her. And it’s different from the last time he tried to do domestic, when everything had to be new. Cracks in the walls then were like cracks in himself; the cracks in his marriage. Unbearable. Now, he doesn’t mind the imperfections. He knows he’s broken, and Ruth’s no better, but they’re less broken when they’re together.

“Sam?”

“Mmm?”

“Can we… stay here? Tonight? I know there’s no furniture, but we could… I don’t know, grab some blankets from your place, and—”

“I think it’d be a little uncomfortable,” he says, voice of gentle reason. Her pout makes him sigh. “Look, I want to. I do! But maybe it’s better we wait. You know, not spend our first night here shivering on the floorboards.”

She nods, in spite of her palpable disappointment. “No... You’re... you’re right. Um. Did you wanna look at upstairs?”

“Sure.” 

The guest rooms are similarly bare. Waiting for life to be lived within their spaces again. And the last door they come to is their bedroom. Or it will be, anyway. It’s been a long time since he’s thought about a room like that; not _his_, not _mine_, but _ours. _And he really has gone soft; that the idea does something strange to his chest, rather than make him roll his eyes.

Ruth pushes open the bedroom door, flicks on the light and freezes. Because this room isn’t empty. There’s a mattress on the floor, piled high with blankets and pillows and cushions; every bit of soft furnishing he could find and cram in his car after the realtor rang, told him the key was theirs to collect. There’s his bedside lamp, hastily grabbed, now balanced on a desk chair serving as impromptu bedside table. A couple of candles, because he had the vague idea they’d make the lumpen nest he’s constructed more romantic. And his TV, unceremoniously dumped on the floor. The cable is stretched worryingly taut but he’s pretty confident they’ll receive signal from the _GLOW _network and can watch tonight’s episode of _Van Helsing High _live together.

“What? _How_?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I, uh, I kinda figured you’d want to stay tonight, so I came by on the way to pick you up. Tried to make it so we could.”

She covers her mouth with her hand, eyes suddenly glassy with tears. “Sam, I—”

“What?” It comes out soft, in the shocked silence, because he’s scared. Not sure he hasn’t fucked this up already by sneaking in first.

“I just... I can’t believe that you would _do_ that for me—”

“Oh, shut up,” he says, and they kiss. It starts soft and gentle, her arms curling around his neck as she leans up and into him. A part of him wonders idly how many more kisses they’ll come to share here. How long it will take for creaks of the old house around them to become unnoticeable when they do; for the faint, pleasantly woody smell of the room to become homely and familiar. 

But this kiss will always be their first. And that secret soft part of his soul, worryingly close to the surface these days, hopes he’ll always remember it. The way her breath hitches as his hand runs up, along her spine; the tiniest hint of salt in his mouth, from the happy tears she doesn’t let fall. He wants forever the feeling that swoops in his stomach, still, as she tugs his shirt out of his pants. The warmth of her; the softness of her skin. He could drown in it, and die a happy man.

He bears her down onto the mattress instead and pulls off her clothes. It feels like they might have traveled in time. Back to his college days, where making frantic love on the floor to a girl that drives him crazy was... well, alright, not exactly a regular occurrence, but at least his _intention_ on a number of occasions. She traces his scruffy cheek with her thumb, eyes on his, and the sudden rush of fierce desire takes them both by surprise. Her mouth finds his, her kiss rough and desperate, and he pushes between her legs. 

It’s not exactly what he had planned for their first time together here. Not the slow and sensual act of tracing every line, every curve of her body by candlelight. Instead she’s kissing him fiercely. Gasping, as he thrusts hard and deep inside of her. His mouth slips to her breasts, sucking hungrily. Marking her in flushed pink skin; _here, now, mine. _Christ, he can’t remember the last time they fucked like _this._ It’s almost like they’re road-testing him after the latest mechanic’s appraisal. Sure, the experts agree he’s roadworthy for another six months, but what’s he handling like?

(_“Uh, Sam Sylvia? I have a ten am appointment.” _

_“Hi Mr Sylvia. If you can take these forms and a seat over in the blue waiting area?” _

_Ruth follows him to the plastic chairs, and he has the strangest sense of deja-vu. “Look,” he says, “You don’t have to waste a whole fucking morning on this—” _

_“I know.” _

_“It’s just it’s usually a long wait and—” _

_“Sam?” _

_“What?” _

_“If you want me to wait outside, that’s fine. But I’m going to be here for you.” _

_He sighs, wondering not for the first time why he has such difficulty accepting her support over this. Because it’s his own damn fault, he supposes. Because he’s ashamed. And he’s scared. _

_But he sat with her in a doctor’s waiting room when she probably felt the same once. Maybe he has to just let this go—)_

He drops his head into her neck. There’s no need to stifle their noises here; those in his throat find echo in hers. Louder, more ragged, and he starts to lose their rhythm. Right on the edge of release. Her fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting skin as she comes with a cry. He follows, hard, inside her.

And that, then, is their first time together in their house. His heart seems to swell at the thought of it as they catch their breath, still tangled up together. Every sense is full of her; her taste; her smell. Skin warm against skin. The happy little huff of breath she makes, bringing her hand up to stroke through his hair. They don’t need words for a while. Her fingers on his face, her eyes on his, are as good as an _I love you_ these days. 

This has to be the moment, he suddenly realizes. Heavy-hearted with love for one another, all sweaty and well-fucked. If he can just reach the box in his pocket—

“Hmm,” she says, unaware she's interrupting his panic, cat-got-the-cream satisfied. “I think you’re going to like the cut of tonight’s episode…”

“Really?”

“Yeah! I think it really helps build the tension before the mid-season reveal. Wait, is it almost nine? We should turn the TV on...”

“Uh, yeah,” he gulps. Instead of the right words, something like ‘_but before you do, there’s something I need to ask you…_’

Fuck it. It’s too late now. She’s rolling him over, escaping the weight of him to tune into their show. There’ll be other times, he thinks. Another moment where he’s not quite so slow-witted and gets the words out before she moves onto something else.

He levers himself up onto his elbows, rearranging the cushions and pillows so they can sit up together, and watch live their latest episode of _Van Helsing High. _


	25. Juxtaposition

When you get right down to it, he thinks — mouth full of nails, hammer poised — he’s just not the most practical guy in the world. He does alright with electrical shit because that’s been a part of the day job, on and off, for more than thirty years. And he can change a tire. Hang a painting. But any more elaborate act of DIY he’s tended to avoid.

For some reason he’s got it into his head that this time, for Ruth, it can be different. He can be different. But it turns out he’s still not got the fucking patience for pages of instructions and numbered diagrams. Trouble is, he’s not got the freestyle skills needed to go _off-piste_ without them, either. Long story short, that combination is why he’s having to reverse engineer his way _back_ to the schematic for a fucking TV stand.

“Fuck,” he says, around the nails, as the thing collapses sideways. One leg is shorter than the other. How the fuck has _that_ happened?

The sound of keys in the front door is all that saves the stand from being smashed into further pieces in frustration. Ruth is returned, sighing with such exaggerated theatricality it carries all the way upstairs. He pads down to join her.

“Oh, my God,” she says by way of hello. “I’d forgotten how _painful_ back bumps can be.”

He folds her into his arms in response, too grumpy for words yet. She hums her pleasure as his thumbs rub over her knotted shoulders. This at least he can do. “Better?”

“Mmm, _so_ much better.” She takes in his face. “I take it the furniture—?"

“You know, how about we don’t fucking talk about that right now?”

She tries and fails to hide her smile, giving him a kiss instead. It does help, he’s prepared to admit. “I need a shower. And some food. God, I’m so hungry. All those circuits with Cherry, the really build up an appetite…”

“Stop fishing. I made us dinner already.”

“I _wasn’t_—” she protests, but gives it up in the face of his raised eyebrows. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure. Do you want to eat now, or shower first?”

“Food. Definitely food…”

* * *

He convinces her to take a bath in the end, piping hot, with a lavish scoop of Epsom salts for the aching muscles and bruises. Leaves her to luxuriate for a while, her cheeks pinking from the heat of the water and a paperback in hand. The thought of her is a distraction, not entirely unwelcome, the whole time he’s trying to finish the goddamn TV stand.

He eventually returns with what, if not subject to undue scrutiny, looks like a serviceable piece of furniture.

“Ta-da.”

She puts down the book to better take in his efforts. Her hair in wild curls with the humidity, face flushed, and so fucking beautiful she makes his chest ache. “Wow.”

“Exactly. And it only took... Oh, all fucking _day_.”

That smile is back, playing around her mouth. “Well, if it’ll make you feel better... I think there’s room in here for two?”

It takes every ounce of resolve he has not to immediately jump in with her. She’s been reluctant to take a bath with him before; something he has a hazy idea has to do with President Dickhead of KDTV. “You sure?”

“Yeah! Get in.”

He’s wearing a smile of his own now, shedding his clothes in a hurry. He plans to take the end with the tap, in a fit of uncharacteristic chivalry. Instead, she motions for him to lie back against her. Her feet hook somewhere around his knees, her arms around his neck. Looking down the length of his body in the tub, he’s not quite sure how he feels. Vulnerable, maybe. Like they should be lying the other way around, certainly. But sometimes… Fuck, maybe sometimes it’s nice to be _held_ instead of to _hold_, and—

“You okay?” He can _feel_ her words through his ribs as much as he can hear them, echoing slightly off the tiles. And he wonders how she knew. What tell gave away the tangled knot of his thoughts, without her seeing his face.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Saying it makes it so; the thing he needed to just relax and lie for a while, half-floating, with her.

If he tilts his head back, he’s on her shoulder, and she can lean down to kiss his mouth. She runs her fingers over his chest as they do exactly that. They stutter over the little bare patches, where the sticky pads of his recent EKG have inadvertently pulled out the hair.

“Did it… hurt?”

“Not really. I mean, the impromptu waxing a little. The test itself is fine.”

Her mouth dips to his again for a longer kiss, as her hands reach down. Moving across his belly, making his breath hitch, involuntary. She shifts against him slightly and it’s not just his arousal that’s increasingly obvious to them both. He can hear the smile in her voice when she speaks. “You know, I think we should do this more often…”

For once, she’ll find no disagreement in him.

* * *

_“Ladies and Gentlemen, coming to you live from the Heyworth Hotel in California… It’s the Christmas crossover you’ve allllll been waiting for! The wonderful warriors of _Women’s Wrestle Mania_ are here to take on the _Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling_!!”_

He keeps the camera trained on Bash, until the voice of Ruth in his headset chimes in. “Okay, camera two, let’s get some audience reactions to that…”

It’s not hard to find some suitably enthused faces. Howling wolves in tribute to the long absent She-Wolf; a whole family in traditional Peruvian hats to show their support for Machu.

“And camera one, let’s get the big entrance for Phoenix and Melrose.”

It’s a mark of how truly powerful Debbie has become, that she’s managed to negotiate KDTV into this corner. Their former employer now the losing competitor in their battle for the airwaves, forced into allowing this festive collaboration to take place. A victory he imagines is all the sweeter for letting them indulge in this nostalgia. Ruth and Carmen co-directing, old favorites battling the rising stars…

And this old man who really should know better, running around the edge of the ring with a handheld like it’s twenty years ago. Capturing the struggle; the drama; the victory and defeat. And yes, the fucking glitter. He’s consistently amazed at how much of the stuff they seem to create.

His shoulder is aching from the weight of the camera by the time they reach their epic finale. What else, of course, then a glorious tag-team match? It starts with the _WWM_ title-card; the good girl Captain Marvelous trying to take back the Christmas crown from villainous Ice Queen Frost. Things look to be going well for the Captain, until Frost calls upon the icy winds of the Siberian tundra to magically freeze her opponent.

“I – I can’t believe my eyes! It can’t be? But it _is_! Ladies and gentlemen, it’s ZOYA!”

She blows in with the ice and snow, screaming down a terrifyingly fast zip line in an explosion of yet more goddamn glitter. He can’t help but grin behind his camera as the crowd goes crazy for his girl.

“No one can defeat us!” she crows, in that outrageous accent. Sublimely ridiculous and enjoying every second of it for once, he can tell.

“Oh, I’d think again, Soviet Scum!”

And Debbie too, has her shining moment. Cape snapping in the breeze from an industrial fan. The Grace-Kelly-on-steroids he always imagined her to be, as she strides into the ring and the final fight begins.

* * *

Their after-party is at the fucking Roosevelt Hotel. It’s appropriate. A Hollywood icon that almost went under, now entering a renaissance. The old glamour still just about there, underneath all the new paint and polish. It’s evolve or die; like they say. He’s made the same fucking choice.

Which is why he’s standing on the balcony of their room for the night, watching the inky sky wash pale pink with dawn. Turning the engagement ring he’s been carrying about for a fucking _month_ now over and over in his hand. He thought it would be easy tonight. Riding the adrenaline high of an insane wrestling show; the reminder of their roots together juxtaposed with the trappings of success they’ve all worked so hard to build. It felt as close to perfect as could be.

He was half-right. Ruth was giddy-happy high. And also the center of attention; the star of the fucking show. He’d be a real asshole to take her moment and make it all about him. But knowing that he’s done the right thing doesn’t make him feel any happier about it—

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you coming to bed?”

“Uh,” he says, turning to look at her. Her dress is unzipped. Still hanging on her body, but only just. The elaborate party hair-do is starting to unravel, errant curls escaping, and her lipstick is smudged. It’s certainly tempting. “I was thinking about going for a walk.”

She raises her eyebrows. “In the middle of the night?”

“It’s almost sunrise. I was gonna walk up the hill, see it come up over the city.”

She looks, if anything, more skeptical. “_You_ want to walk to watch a sunrise?”

“Ah, fuck. You’re right,” he says, losing his nerve. “It’s pretty corny…”

“It is,” she agrees, shimmying out of her dress and digging in her overnight bag for a tee shirt. She pulls on her jeans next and catches his frown. “What? It’s not like you do corny very often, I have to take these opportunities when they come! Is that how you’re going?”

He’s still in shirt sleeves; tuxedo trousers. “Yeah. You ready?”

She shakes her head but keeps her opinions about hiking in men’s formal-wear to herself. “Lead the way.”

The path to the summit, once they’re off the streets, is a sandy track. Even in crepuscular gloom it’s easy to follow. And if they were normal, he thinks, he’d probably be holding her hand. Instead they walk apart, in silence. He keeps his head down, hands in pockets. One foot in front of the other all the way to the top.

“So,” she says, when they reach the viewing point and look down upon the city. “Is it everything you dreamed?”

He thinks about it. The skyscrapers of Downtown are impressive, just by virtue of their scale at this distance. And the sky, at least, is a beautiful color. But even that’s probably due to pollution. “Well, you know,” he replies, “what is?”

She reaches for his hand at last, knitting her fingers with his. “I mean, _I_ think it looks pretty.”

“Hmm.” He looks down at her smudged party face and kisses her in reply. She gives him a worried look when they eventually break apart.

“Sam… are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You just… You seem a little…”

“What?”

“I don’t know! Not yourself? You know, if you’ve bought me up here to murder me somewhere out of the way—”

“Jesus Christ! _That’s_ where your brain goes when I try and do something romantic?” 

“Well, I just—”

“Look, I…” He looks up, at the fading stars, and rolls the dice. “I want to ask you something. Something important. Before everything gets even more complicated with sequels to Justine’s film and second season renewals—”

“Something about _Van Helsing_?”

“No—I—just… Just don’t overthink this, alright? Whatever the answer is, just say it. And—and we’ll figure out the rest later on…”

“Okay,” she says, nodding nervously. “I’m listening.”

Time has slowed to a crawl. This is the moment. If he doesn’t do it now, it’s never going to happen. And he has to _know_, right? Even if her answer is no, at least then he can stop thinking about it.

He doesn’t so much take a knee as fall to them; holding up the ring in the palm of his open hand. “Look,” he says. “I know you don’t really care about this kind of thing. And that I’ve done it before, and fucked it all up, so I understand if you don’t want to… But, uh, it means something to me. Yeah. It means something. So, I thought I’d just _ask_ and then we—”

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“You haven’t… actually asked me a question.”

“Oh,” he says. “Right.” It’s a valid point, although he think’s the one he’s trying to get out of his mouth is fairly fucking obvious at this juncture. He swallows. “Will you marry me, Ruth? Please?”

She’s frowning at him; serious. The kind of expression she usually wears when they discuss follow-spots or season storylines. And she’s nodding now, like he’s convinced her shooting a wide angle is a good idea, or that cutting a particular line—

“Yes,” she says. 

“Yes?” He’s got no idea why he’s trying to fuck this up for himself, other than he’s not sure he quite believes his ears. 

“You said not to overthink it, so I didn’t! And that’s… that’s the answer. Yes.” 

“Oh,” he manages. “Fuck.” 

He takes the ring and puts it on her finger, not an easy task given how much they’re both shaking. She pulls him back up onto to his feet. Hanging on to the lapels of his shirt while he grips her shoulders tightly, like they might both float off into space if they dare to let go.

“What happens now?” she breathes.

“Well, I guess—I guess we tell people. Justine. Debbie. Your parents.” Fuck, he’s not thought that one entirely through. “And then… I don’t know, I don’t know! Pick a date, find a venue—” He kisses her. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Together?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” he replies, through the kisses. “I mean, if that’s what you want.”

She nods, nose bumping against his. “Yes. Because everything you just said terrifies me. But—but I still want to do it!” She’s laughing now. “With you, I-I don’t know why. But I do.”

“I know,” he says. “Me too.” Pressing kiss after kiss to her face. “I’m so glad you’re completely fucking crazy, Ruth. You know that?”

“I have a pretty good idea at this point...”

He’s not sure how long they stand, wrapped in each other; in the stupidly happy feeling simply being together in this moment freights. It might be without parallel in his whole damn life, and he doesn’t give a fuck how soft that makes him. As far as he’s concerned it can go on forever.

Eventually, though, she puts her hand on his chest and draws away. “So,” she smiles. “Are we done with the view?” 

“Yeah,” he replies. “Yeah. I think so. C’mon.” He puts his arm around her shoulders. “Time for bed, right?”

“Mm-hm.”

They walk back down the hill and into the bright new dawn, together. 


	26. Have yourself a very merry little Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for brief thoughts of self-harm/suicide

**Christmas Day, 1986**

_Last Christmas, I gave you my heart. But the very next day you gave it away..._

_This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special—_

“Jesus _Christ_,” he says, around his cigarette. Swiping at the radio to kill the power. He misses on the first attempt; squints at the thing and tries again. “You’d think they actually _want_ sad fucks like me to top themselves…”

His whiskey bottle has no reply. He remembers cracking the seal on it this morning; has spent the day so far drinking his way solidly through. More hair of the dog that has bitten hard since Justine left for Christmas with her mother. Other highlights of this holiday season include two large cigars he definitely shouldn’t have smoked, and a semi-participatory re-watch of _Back Seat Cabbie_ on grainy video. For dinner he’s probably going to eat the rest of a bag of cheese flavored potato chips. Merry fucking Christmas.

He takes another swig of whiskey, slumped on his couch, and debates the merits of continuing his self-abasement in a bar somewhere. He could find company there. Well, pay for company. Any woman he finds in a dive bar today that _isn’t_ a working girl clearly has problems of her own. He probably doesn’t need that in his life right now. Not on top of everything else—

The phone, trilling, interrupts his miserable line of thought. He stares at it for a moment in surprise. Who does he know, these days, that would be ringing on Christmas Day?

“Hello?”

“Hey! Sam!”

“Justine?”

“Yeah, I, um, was just calling to wish you a merry Christmas...”

“Yeah, it’s uh…” He clears his throat. “Anyway. Did you, uh, did you get anything nice?” Trying and failing to keep his words from slurring. Fuck.

“Just the usual. Sweaters and socks and school supplies... Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” The line clicks in the silence, and both of them know he’s a liar. He tries to dig himself out of this hole he’s created. “Thanks for calling. You know, it – it means a lot. That you’re thinking of me today.”

He hears her sharp intake of breath in response. Fuck. Too honest.

“Well, yeah. And I mean, I’m looking forward to being back next week.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too. Merry Christmas, kiddo.” He swallows the sudden lump in his throat. “Love ya.”

“I love you too,” she says. Through gritted teeth, as always, but he knows she means it. “Bye for now...”

“Bye.”

He puts down the handset, pulls off his glasses and drives his knuckles into his eyes. “Fuuuuuuuuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

Because it’s been easy to tell himself, as he indulges his bad habits and hastens himself down the road to an early grave, that it’s all fine, really. She’s signed those fucking adoption papers, so she’s going to inherit what is probably the best of him.

And it’s not like anyone else gives a flying fuck whether he lives or dies…

(“_I think that I’m in love with you,” she said. _

_And he dared to believe it, for a moment, when her lips met his. More fool him—) _

He drags himself back into his present predicament. Because he owes his daughter more than a fairly meager inheritance, doesn’t he? All this work they’ve put into her movie. If she comes back to his cold corpse, it’s not like the studio’s going to just hand her the reins and let her get on with things.

He sighs and reaches for the radio again. Maybe it’s time to tune back into the rest of humanity for a while. Stop spiraling. 

_So, this is Christmas. And what have you done? _

_Another year over; a new one just begun… _

“Yeah,” he says. To John and Yoko and his empty house. “Yeah, alright...”

* * *

**Christmas Day, 1987**

Ruth has wound twinkling lights around the mirror on their dressing table. They blink at him; red, green, yellow, blue. He watches the colors chase one other for an idle moment, as the rest of his brain travels back from the world of sleep. The digits of the alarm clock declare it to be 07:38 on Christmas morning. Far too early to be waking, in his opinion.

He rolls over, expecting to find her asleep at his side. Instead she is eyes open, a smile playing around her mouth. She was watching him sleep. He frowns. Almost fearful, still, of what she must make of him—

“Hi,” she says. Soft and happy. “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, God. Already? C’mon…” He kisses her before she can squeak protest at his cynicism, feeling her smile against his mouth. His fingers tangle in her hair as they lie, nose to nose, burrowed in the warm softness of their bed. “Merry Christmas, Ruth.” 

Today is a day apart from the rest of the world, the rest of their lives. It’s already a Christmas without compare; a kind he knows will never come in quite this way again. Just the two of them. Justine is spending the first part of her holiday in Sacramento; her parents are cruising the Mediterranean.

He’s not exactly sold on the day itself, if he’s honest. Peace on Earth and all that wishful bullshit he’s still got little time for. But there _is_ something to be said for the look on Ruth’s face, when he dragged home a stupidly enormous tree ready to shed needles all over their fucking carpet. Her smile, as he helped her wind tinsel and strings of colored bulbs around the damn thing; placing baubles on branches she was too short to reach. Fuck, she even managed to convince him to hang a stocking, produced out of the blue on Christmas Eve, over their fireplace.

“So, when do you want to open presents? Before dinner, or after?”

“I don’t know. Before?” he guesses. Correctly, given her grin.

“Do you usually get dressed? Or—?”

“Ruth, I haven’t done Christmas like this in a long time.”

“Right. Right. I just didn’t want to—”

He kisses her again, to quiet the panic. “You know, how about we start our own fucking traditions? Hmm?”

She nods. Her thumb running over the prickling stubble he’s been too lazy to shave. “Yes,” she says.

“Al_right_. First things first, then...” He pins her to the mattress so he can press kisses to her face, her neck. The goofy, ridiculous kind; that tickle her with his mustache and dissolve them into mutual laughter.

That’s his first tradition, he’s decided. He’s allowed to be sickly sweet with her today and not give a fuck about it.

* * *

“What... where did all these come from?”

His once empty stocking is now bulging, and there are even more presents arranged under the tree.

“Santa,” she deadpans, “obviously.”

“I dunno... Don’t you have to be good to earn shit from that guy?”

It's been a better year than most, on that score, but he’s still in substantial arrears if you take a long-term view. The kind he could take a lifetime to work off, if he’s honest about it.

“I put in a word for you,” she says.

“I’ll bet. Nerd.” He retrieves her presents from their hiding place under the stairs. “I, uh... These are from me.” He’s not pretending some fat guy in a suit deserves the credit; he’s made a fucking _effort,_ for a change. Alright, they’re not in a stocking, but they are at least gift-wrapped and packaged in a fancy paper bag.

She presses her lips together, apparently slightly overwhelmed at the sight of them. As if there is any universe anywhere where a guy _doesn’t_ get his fiancée gifts. Come on, even if he was flat broke he’d at least have _made_ her something.

“Sam... That’s too much. You shouldn’t have-”

“Yeah, I know, but I did,” he says, cutting her off before she can really build up steam. “Here.” He passes her the slim package on top. “Start with this one.”

And this is tradition number two, he decides. A you-then-me approach to unwrapping. A gold necklace for her; winter boots for him. Crosby, Stills and Nash records he knows she regretted losing in her decade of downsizing across LA. A new Walkman and blank cassette tapes, to make his regular workout punishments a little more bearable. They end up somehow like this; curled in his armchair together, kissing their gratitude.

“I love you,” she says.

“I know.”

She grins at his response, but it’s not the arrogance she maybe mistakes it for, that makes him reply so. Just that it’s still hard to believe they actually made it to this point, given their terrible timing and wounded egos. Where she can say those words aloud to him. Where he can fucking _believe_ them. If you’re in the market for Christmas miracles, he thinks, that's got to be fucking up there.

* * *

Dinner is a co-directed effort, all their studio simpatico brought to bear on roast potatoes and a Christmas ham. This is definitely tradition number three, he thinks, chopping carrots—

The phone trills. He wipes his hands and grabs the handset. “Merry Christmas, Justine.”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Lucky guess. How’s it going in Sacramento?”

“The usual. Socks and sweaters—”

“—and school supplies.” He chuckles. “Its probably good for you.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah! Keep you grounded.”

“Ugh, whatever. I’m still coming to LA for New Year’s...”

“I know. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, come on. This is me you’re talking to. If I didn’t want to hang out with you, would I fucking lie about it?”

She laughs at that. “I guess not. Merry Christmas... Dad.”

His eyes are suddenly stinging with salt. She doesn’t use that word often, and every time she does, he finds himself choking up like this. It’s fucking ridiculous. “Love you kiddo,” he says. Voice wavering, but only slightly, thank God.

"Love you too," she says, in that faux put-upon voice. 

“Bye for now…”

"Bye."

He stays still for a moment, receiver still in hand even after she’s hung up. Screwing up his face to get his emotions under control. It scares him, if he’s honest. He’s been so numb for years, resigned to every good thing being a passing distraction at best, and now—

“You okay?” Ruth interrupts his descent into anxiety, framed in the kitchen doorway; floury apron over her clothes. Giving him space, he thinks, because she knows how he feels about anyone seeing him cry. Even her. 

He pulls himself together. “Yeah,” he says, flashing her a smile and putting down the receiver. “Just trying to get out of peeling those sprouts.”

“Mmm.” She narrows her eyes. Not remotely fooled, but letting it lie. “I thought as much…”

He follows her back into the kitchen. There’s little left to do in terms of preparations and she stands in front of the oven, folding her arms and nodding satisfied. The same face she makes at the end of a long day’s shoot, or when she finishes a draft of a screenplay. He comes to survey their efforts too, putting his arms around her and pressing a kiss into the back of her neck. She arches into him slightly. The intended effect, if he’s honest. 

“You know, I think we have at least an hour before anything else needs doing,” he says, nose in her hair. His hands already moving to find the knot in her apron string.

“Well, that’s probably enough time for you to unwrap your last present.”

“What’s that, then?” He unhooks the apron over her head, trailing kisses down her neck, burying his face in her shoulder.

“Mmm,” she hums. “Keep going and maybe you’ll find out…”

He doesn’t need telling twice, unbuttoning her shirt from behind. Revealing she’s dressed in new underwear, approximately a million miles from her usual comfortable, practical choices. It is, however, festively appropriate, being red and green.

“Jesus _Christ_.”

“Do you – do you like it?”

And _there’s_ his Ruth, undercutting her sultry come-on as she’s struck with sudden nervousness. He unbuttons her pants, pulling down her jeans to reveal the matching panties. Running his hands over the gossamer material, up her body, over her breasts. “What do you think?” he growls in her ear, pulling her tight against him.

“I think... that you’re still wearing too many clothes.”

“True.” He tugs his shirt over his head; unbuckles his belt. Stepping out of his jeans. “Now what?” he asks, against her bare shoulder.

“Hmm…” She turns around, finally. Putting her arms around his neck, as his hands worry over the uncharacteristic lingerie. Until she captures his mouth, pressing into him, and he lifts her up into his arms. And this—please _God_—can be tradition number four, he thinks, as he carries her back upstairs to their bed for a time.

* * *

_And so this is Christmas. And what have we done? _

_Another year over; a new one just begun._

The radio plays Christmas songs as they eat dinner, barely dressed and bed-headed. Her cheeks are still flushed pink from their exertions; the marks of his mouth still visible on her neck, on the scoop of skin exposed by her dressing gown. He knows he’s still grinning like an idiot and he doesn’t care.

The rest of the day stretches out ahead of them. The _GLOW_ Christmas special on TV still to come. An inevitable ‘phone call from Debbie, to debate with Ruth how things _actually_ looked on screen. Good-natured grousing, fueled by the travel books they’ve gifted each other, over where the fuck they’re going to go on honeymoon.

_A very Merry Christmas! And a Happy New Year._

_Let's hope it's a good one, without any fear._

He watches her across the table, oblivious to the weight of his gaze, and can't help but hope so, too.


End file.
